


Hiding in Plain Sight

by sherlockian4evr



Series: Anything But a Game [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Depression, Drug Dealing, Drugs, Edited - Tweaked a few scenes and made corrections, Eventual Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Flashbacks, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Medicine, Nightmares, Non-Consensual, Past Drug Use, Rape, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, References to Drugs, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, off-screen violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-03-21 20:16:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 29
Words: 23,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3703901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlockian4evr/pseuds/sherlockian4evr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over two weeks ago, something dark happened to Sherlock. John figures out what happened with Greg's help. Now they have to deal with the aftermath.</p><p>Beta read by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110">Sherlock1110.</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> There will be triggers related to rape in upcoming chapters. It could be graphic. Be warned.

John peered out the window of the flat. It looked like another sodding drugs bust. He should have been expecting it. Sherlock had been ignoring Greg's texts and calls for hours. When Greg had started calling John, he knew it was bad. John had tried to coax the detective from where he was curled on the sofa to no avail. After four calls, Greg had desisted. Now this.

John met Greg at the door to the flat. He motioned the team in and stepped back without a word. John didn't trust himself to speak right now.

"Oi! Sherlock. Drugs bust." Greg announced.

The only reaction he received was the detective burrowing more deeply into the sofa, his back to the room.

Greg turned a questioning look to John as his team set about their work.

Pushing down his annoyance with the DI, John pulled Greg through the flat door to stand at the top of the stairs. He pushed the door to before beginning. "You saw that. Sherlock."

Greg nodded. "How long has this been going on?"

"A bit over two weeks. At first I thought it was one of his sulks, but he usually does this thing. He's like a three year old. He has to check to see if I'm paying attention to his sulks so he looks over his shoulder."

Greg smiled at the image.

John wasn't smiling. "He hasn't been doing that. You might as well know. He's clean. I've checked him daily. He doesn't even complain. He just goes along with it then lies back down. I've searched the flat high and low as well. It’s clean too. I just don't know what's wrong." John scrubbed his hands over his eyes.

"The first time, though... I was convinced he was using. He gave me the complete Sherlock treatment. That rapid-fire cold deduction designed to put people off. When that didn't work he hid in his room." John pinched the bridge of his nose. "I had to threaten him with calling Mycroft to get him to come back out. When he finally let me look at his arms... They were covered with bruises, the darkest ones at his wrists. They were definitely not from drug use and they weren't covering it up either. I asked what happened and I could tell he almost got violent, but he held himself in check and flopped back down on the sofa. It’s been the same every time I've asked."

All thought of the case had fled Greg's mind. Now he was simply worried for his friends. "Has anything else changed? Are there other strange behaviours?"

John sighed and looked back at the closed door. "He startles easily. Noises. Touches. That kind of thing. It’s even harder to get him to eat. Only Mrs. Hudson can coax him into that and then only small bites at a time." John took a deep breath before continuing. "If he's not on the sofa, he's taking a shower. He does it all the time. Two or three times a day.

Greg was grim. "You know you're describing a victim of extreme trauma?"

"Right. I know. But bloody hell, he won't say anything! What do I do, Greg?" John's hands were clutched into fists.

"First we try to sort out what happened. If my suspicions are correct... Well..." Greg trailed off.

John looked up sharply. "What are you thinking?"

"Anything else strange?"

John was looking defeated. He knew where this was going. "A couple of days after this started I found his clothes in the bin. They were in a clear bag like an evidence bag, but he must have changed his mind because there they were actually in the bin."

Greg's voice was urgent. "What did you do with them?"

John answered in a matter of fact tone, "Molly has them."

Greg sighed with relief, then started hesitantly, "He lets you touch him to check for drugs, right? Does he flinch?"

John closed his eyes, "Yes."

Greg continued, "Does he flinch if Mrs. Hudson touches him?"

John choked out his response. "Not if he sees it coming."

Pressing onward, Greg stated, "He only eats small bites when you get him to eat at all."

"Fuck." John punched the wall.

"John, I need you to calm down. We're going to walk back in there like this conversation never happened. I'll run a couple of tests that should verify or refute what we're both thinking. Then we'll go from there." Greg was just looking at John intently willing him to comply.

After a few moments to gather himself, John nodded, then they re-entered the flat.

Greg made a beeline for Sally. He talked quietly with her for a moment, then she lifted a tub of  _something_  from the counter and made her way to Sherlock.

"Hey, Freak." Sally called, getting his attention before she reached out and tapped Sherlock on the shoulder. He shifted calmly to glare at her before replying, "It’s for an experiment.' 

Sally raised an eyebrow, then turned a questioning gaze to Lestrade. He nodded his thanks and she returned the container to where she had found it. 

Greg waited several minutes while his team searched the flat. Finally, he approached the detective. "Hey, Sherlock," he began, touching Sherlock's shoulder. 

The reaction was dramatic. Sherlock's body jerked then went stiff before he acknowledged Lestrade. "Get. Out." 

Greg backed off. "Oi! Everyone out. There's nothing to find. I'm calling it. Out!" 

One by one, his team packed up and left, grumbling the entire time. Sally was the last to leave. "Coming, Inspector?" 

"No, I'll catch you up." 

Sally looked doubtful, but made no objection as she closed the door behind her. 

John and Greg exchanged grave looks. Sherlock had been assaulted.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock knew that his mind wasn't operating up to specifications. He imagined that his mental capacity was reduced to that of someone like John. While decidedly not an idiot, John's mental capacity was sufficiently less than Sherlock's to make the detective feel like a dunce.

Still, he was able to deduce that John and Greg  _knew_. Oh, they didn't have it all figured out. Not yet. Thankfully, they were lacking the salient facts. Still, why did they have to choose this moment to be observant when they so often missed the blatantly obvious?

Sherlock heard Greg drag John's chair across the floor.  **Blocking the exit to the flat.**  His anger flared. Sherlock would not be accosted by the two men, not in his own home over an issue that didn't concern the others.

Sherlock coiled himself; ready to spring. The moment he heard Lestrade sit in John's chair and John sat at the desk, the detective lunged from the sofa. He stepped atop the coffee table, intending to break for his bedroom. Unfortunately, he failed to account for his prolonged period of inactivity, lowered caloric intake and injuries. Sherlock's legs gave away as he stepped down from the table. His fall was unbroken by furniture or books. So, though he fell hard, it was a clean fall.

John and Greg were by his side instantly, helping the dazed, but unhurt man to a sitting position.

The detective gave a wince, then, after regaining his composure, Sherlock angrily shook the other men's hands off. "Leave me alone. I don't need your help." Though still shaky, he forced himself to stand. John was now blocking his path of retreat so Sherlock stalked to his own chair and sat, ignoring the pain and pointedly facing away from the other two men.

It was John that approached Sherlock carefully. "Sherlock, I believe you do need our help. Something happened. Something horrible. And you're not handling it well and you shouldn't have to on your own.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. He just wanted them to go away. They were only making things worse. It was his burden to bear, no one else's. If it broke him, so be it. He had always been the Freak, the Machine, the Addict. Now he was the Whore. Nothing John or Greg said or did could change that. It was simply one more moniker to add to the list. One more point for his self-loathing.

Greg hung back as John slowly took Sherlock's hands in his own. The detective whined as John forced his fists open, removing Sherlock's nails from where they had become embedded in his flesh. Greg stepped up and slowly placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. The three were frozen in that tableaux for several minutes.

Though nothing was said, an understanding was reached. For the moment, Sherlock didn't feel pressured to speak. He felt marginally safe for the first time in days.

It wouldn't last. They would give him time to gather himself, then they would ask their questions. He wouldn't answer. They would try to help. It wouldn't matter. What they couldn't understand was that it was far too late.


	3. Chapter 3

All too soon, Sherlock began to feel confined. He shrugged off Greg's hand and extricated his own hands from John's. Not ready to talk, he fixed his eyes upon the skull on the mantelpiece.

"Sherlock..." John began. He was forestalled by Sherlock's raised hand and curled lip.

The detective wanted this to be over. He wanted Greg to leave. He wanted to curl up on the sofa and hide. None of that was to be. He had to survive this ordeal first.

"Lestrade, I will not bolt. Kindly replace John's chair in its customary position." Sherlock's voice was tightly controlled and his eyes never strayed from the skull.

John and Greg exchanged a heavy look, weighing Sherlock's words carefully. They nodded their agreement and Greg complied with Sherlock's request.

John took his customary place while Greg pulled a chair from the desk and moved to sit to the side of the other two men.

Silence reigned in the flat.

After a time, Sherlock spoke in his coldest voice. It was a voice both men had heard before. Only John had ever had it directed at him - at Baskerville. "Go ahead. Ask your questions. Do try not to be dull."

Greg started. "So, you've been out of sorts for over two weeks."

Sherlock growled mockingly, "Is that meant to be a question, Lestrade?"

The DI ran his fingers through his greying hair. This was Sherlock at his worst. Greg would have to phrase his questions carefully. "Right. Sherlock, how many days in a row have you spent more than twenty hours on that sofa?"

Sherlock felt cornered. He didn't want to answer. It would be too condemning. "Sixteen days," he spat.

John broke in. "For Christ's sake, why?"

His eyes snapped from the skull to lock with John's, a burning fury in their depths. "Because I. Want. To be. There."

Other men would have flinched from the heat in that gaze, but John knew that Sherlock used it to cover his deepest pain. His heart clenched in fear for his flatmate.

Greg waved John back. "John and I have both known you too long to be intimidated by your shit. We're getting our answers, Sherlock. Make up your mind about that now. Talk."

Sherlock swivelled his head on his long neck to glare at Greg. "You should know, Lestrade. Even your limited intellect should be able to put the facts together.  _Sixteen days ago_. It was  _your_  case. You took in two serial killers." Sherlock's gaze grew cold. "What happened to the third!?"

John went pale. "Oh my God."

 **Sixteen days ago. He told us there were three killers. Bloody hell.**  Greg almost fell from his chair. "What did he do?"

Sherlock met his question with stony silence.

Greg couldn't stop himself, he shouted, "Christ, Sherlock! What did he do to you!?"

Greg's loss of composure gave Sherlock a perverse sense of satisfaction.  _He_  was in control. No one could force him to answer. He was autonomous in this. Let both of them stew. Let them cry and rage. Let them feel helpless in the face of what they could not change. Let them...

Abruptly, Sherlock realised the direction his thoughts were taking. These two men were his closest friends and he was wishing the same sense of helplessness on them that he had suffered through for the last sixteen days.  **Loathsome. Freak. Whore.**  Sherlock curled in on himself, head tucked beneath his arms.

Greg had known all along, he was dealing with a victim, but in the face of Sherlock's shields, he had forgotten. "Fuck." Greg pulled out the persona he used with victims, his voice low and soothing. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout. Please, just try to breath. In. Out. In. Out." Greg continued directing Sherlock's breathing until the skittish man calmed down and uncurled.

John had sat frozen the entire time. Seeing his friend in such a state had thrown him into a mild state of shock. He found himself breathing with the other two men.

Still in a soothing voice, Greg addressed the detective. "Sherlock, he hurt you. You're going to have to let someone look at your injuries. I know it has been a while. But you need to be checked out, yeah?"

Sherlock's voice was rough, tears glistened in his eyes. "No."

John stilled his trembling hands and found his voice. "Let me do it, Sherlock. You can trust me." The pleading in the doctor's eyes was unmistakable.

Sherlock knew he would have to comply. There was bruising on his torso from where he had been kicked and a vicious bruise to his left calf. It probably extended down to his fibula and tibia. He could limit John's exposure to those injuries. There was no need for the doctor to see his others.

Sherlock replied quietly, "Yes, John. I  _can_  trust you."  **But you can never know the truth.**


	4. Chapter 4

Greg grabbed the doctor's arm. "John, a word before you get started."

The blond looked reluctant, but allowed himself to be pulled into the kitchen. "Yeah?"

"Did you actually look at his clothes before handing them off to Molly?" Greg asked.

John didn't meet his eye. "I wish I could say yes and I wish I could say that I was preserving evidence, but, Christ," he looked up, "the truth is, I was afraid."

The DI grasped the other man on the shoulder. "I understand. Look. I'll make a visit to Molly and see what we can learn from his clothing. I'll let you know as soon as I find out something." Greg turned his attention back to Sherlock. "Just take care of him. He needs you."

John nodded. "Trust me. I won't be doing anything else."

Greg left and John took a moment before he grabbed his kit and returned to face Sherlock.

The detective faced his doctor warily. He had to control and direct this examination with precision. As John pulled up a chair in front of him, Sherlock raised his pyjamas to expose the lower portion of his left leg.

John's gasp of horror was audible. "Fuck. Sherlock you shouldn't have hidden this. God, give me your leg."

Fighting down his revulsion at being touched, this was John after all, he lifted his leg and allowed the doctor to probe at the twenty-five centimetre long bruise. It was hard to the touch and exceedingly painful.

"How did this happen?" John was still palpitating the edges of the bruise.

"Escalator," Sherlock forced out through the pain. "Deserted tube station. He fell on me, most of his weight was on my leg. The escalator step ground its way along despite the pressure." 

Distractedly, John commented, "That accounts for these darker tracks in the bruising. Fuck." He looked up. "How have I missed your limp?"

The detective gave a one word reply. "Sofa." He couldn't help himself, he glanced longingly at the sofa, his point of refuge.

The doctor frowned. **Of course.**  "There's really not much I can do for this. It will take another four to six weeks to dissipate. The pain could linger for months. You'll need to make sure not to favour this leg too much or you'll set yourself up for physical therapy."

Sherlock managed a nod while deciding what to allow John to examine next. There was nothing for it, he would have to let him see his ribs. He shrugged off his dressing gown, then after shifting his pyjama bottoms strategically higher, he pulled off his shirt and covered his abdomen with one smooth stroke. Thankfully, the doctor's eyes latched onto the large bruise on his right side.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "You  _know_  better than this. You should have come to me immediately." He probed the other man's side, wincing in sympathy at Sherlock's swift intake of breath. "I don't think anything is broken, but they are going to be tender for several weeks." The lack of a cutting remark disturbed the doctor enormously. "What else?"

Sherlock wrapped his dressing gown around himself tightly, relieved that the probing was over. "That's it."

His flatmate didn't truly believe him, but after a cursory glance over the detective's form, chose not to argue. "Right." He stood and replaced the chair where he had collected it from the desk, then put away his kit.

John didn't notice the tremors that had overtaken his flatmate. Sherlock couldn't believe he had pulled it off. True, John wasn't as observant as he was, but when it came to medicine, the man tended to be tenacious. He released a shaky breath.

Now if he could just make his way back to the sofa. 

It was such a long way away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It may seem like a small thing, but knowing where the emergency cut off on an escalator can save someone's life. Look near the base of the escalator as you get on or off of it and you will see the emergency cut off button. If someone falls or clothing gets caught in the steps, don't hesitate to hit the button.


	5. Chapter 5

Greg had called ahead and let Molly know that he was on his was to Barts. He hadn’t given her details, he just let her know that he wanted to examine the contents of the bag that John had entrusted to her. Consequently, she didn’t see the harm in getting started without him. If she had known that the items in the bag belonged to Sherlock, things might have made a different decision.

Molly retrieved the bag and snapped on gloves before extracting the items in question. Everything had been folded neatly within a suit jacket. As she unfolded the clothing, she noted its fine quality. Her breath caught as her eyes fell on the purple shirt that was splattered with blood. She would know it anywhere. These were Sherlock’s clothes. Sherlock’s blood.

Molly reined in her emotions, she was a professional after all. Still, when she noticed that most of the buttons were missing, her professionalism slipped a bit. She flipped the shirt over and noticed that the crusting of blood was worse near the tail of the shirt. She dropped the shirt like it was on fire and her breathing came harder. Next, she examined the trousers which were covered with detritus. She directed her eyes to the lower left leg where a long ragged gash was torn in the material. Perplexingly, there was an absence of blood. She examined the knees of the trousers. The right was torn and bloodied. Forcing her eyes higher, Molly saw what she feared, blood had soaked into the seat of the trousers. Molly gagged as she practically flung the trousers down next to the shirt. She skipped the socks and shoes, eyes falling on Sherlock’s pants. She didn’t even have to lift them. The crusted blood was obvious. She knew from years of experience what this meant.

Molly shoved everything haphazardly back into the bag, ripped off her gloves and ran to the sink. She saw the world through a watery haze as she turned on the water and began washing her hands frantically. She couldn’t stand the thought of Sherlock’s blood having been shed in such a brutal way. She felt contaminated by having touched it, not because it was Sherlock’s blood, but because of the sheer evil that had drawn it from such a brilliant, wonderful man.

Molly still loved Sherlock, not with the old puppy love that she had held for him once, but with the love and respect for a fellow human being. With a love grown from watching him change over the last few years into a better man, a man who had given up everything for those he loved, a man who had tried to become more than the cold shell that he had always shown the world.

The change had been because of John, of course. Molly knew that. The doctor had been a wonderful influence on Sherlock. His endless patience and gentle correction had worked wonders in the past years.

Now  _this_. A monster had violated such a wonderful man. Had he been broken? Would he lose everything that he had fought so hard to gain? Would he return to his cold, alone ways?

Molly thought all of these things and sobbed and scrubbed her hands.

Greg was shocked when he first caught sight of Molly. He called out her name but she didn’t seem to hear him. The DI moved quickly to her side and turned off the taps. She looked up at him, still sobbing. Not knowing what else to do, Greg took her into his arms and started whispering words of comfort. Reflexively, he started stroking her hair, trying to comfort her.

After several long minutes, Molly’s sobs subsided and she pulled away, wiping her eyes. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t very professional of me.”

Greg smiled weakly. “S’okay, Molly. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really, no. But… I have to.” Her face was so sad.

“Really, you don’t. It’s none of my business,” the DI reassured.

“You don’t understand. It’s Sh… Sh… Sherlock.” It was so hard for Molly to get the words out. “I went ahead and looked at the clothes John left with me. It was horrible, Greg. I wish I could forget it.”

“Oh, Christ.” Greg carded his hand through his hair. “Go ahead, tell me. Get the worst over with.”

“From what I saw he… There was a lot of blood so…” Molly couldn’t get it out. She decided to go at it obliquely. “If you catch his assailant, we should be able to get a positive DNA match from genetic material on his clothing.”

Greg just stared at her.

Molly closed her eyes. “His pants, specifically.”

 **Oh, Christ.**  The DI bent over, his hand going to his stomach. **How was he going to tell John?**

Molly started sobbing again.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock had made it back to his refuge on the sofa. He was ignoring John’s puttering and concerned glances. Tonight couldn’t come soon enough. The other man would go to bed and he could finally get the shower that we was craving. If he had been able to process thoughts normally, he could have found another way around John, but for now, waiting for him to go to bed was the only solution that presented itself. It was intolerable because the detective could feel the filth crawling over his skin.

It was happening again. Sherlock could feel his breathing starting to grow in rapidity. His heart rate was increasing. He wanted to claw his way out of his skin, it felt too tight. The detective had to calm down before John noticed.  **Prime numbers.**  He would recite prime numbers. **2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19, 23, 29, 31, 37, 41, 43, 47, 53, 59, 61…** His breathing evened out and his heart rate slowed, although his skin still felt too tight, but he would survive.

* * *

I’m on my way back to Baker Street. Need to talk with you alone. – GL

What did you find? – JW

Not on the phone. Will text when I arrive. – GL

John was exceedingly unhappy with the texts that Greg had sent. They sounded entirely too ominous for his comfort. So he did what he always did when he was anxious. He made tea. And waited. It seemed an eternity later that he received another text from the DI.

Just arrived. Meet me downstairs. – GL

“Sherlock, I’m just going to step out for a few minutes. Won’t be long.” He didn’t really expect a response from the lump of detective on the sofa, so he wasn’t disappointed when he was ignored. With a shrug, he made his way down the stairs to where Greg was already waiting. The grim look on the DI’s face was far from reassuring.

“Greg.”

The grey haired man looked everywhere but into the doctor’s eyes. “Is your landlady in?”

John looked confused at the non-sequitur. “No, she’s visiting her sister for the week.”

“Good. Good.” Greg ran his hand through his hair and looked up at John, his head cocked to the side, hands on hips. “Have a seat.” He indicated the stairs.

The doctor shook his head. “I can tell this is bad. Don’t coddle me.”

“Before I tell you anything, you have to promise to react calmly. Remember, Sherlock is just upstairs, he’ll hear anything you do or say that’s too loud. He doesn’t need that. Yeah?” Greg’s look of concern was  _really_  starting to worry John.

“Right. Calm. Promise.” John was holding himself at a rigid parade rest, hands fisted at his side.

“Based on what Molly found on his clothes,” Greg paused and then decided the best thing to do was to say it plainly, “Sherlock was raped.”

John, doctor, Captain Watson, Sherlock’s  _best friend_ , closed his eyes, wanting to punch something, anything. He suppressed the scream that was fighting its way from his chest. Every part of him demanded action, revenge. Adrenaline pumped through him, causing his body to shake with the need to flee the flat and  _immolate_  the bastard that had done this.

“John. John!  _Captain Watson!_ ” Greg was shaking him. The doctor’s eyes snapped open. “Don’t. Just don’t. Sherlock needs you. Not out there,” he gestured toward the streets of London, “but  _here_. Your first priority is helping him get through this.”

Looking back up the stairs, John thought of his friend, alone and suffering in the flat. He wanted to be angry with the man for not telling him about the rape, but he understood. Most victims tried to hide that anything had ever happened and Sherlock was a victim.  **Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.**  He felt the hot burn of tears in his eyes.

“What do I do?” His voice sounded broken. He didn’t even care. What was his pain compared to Sherlock’s.

Greg looked as forlorn as John felt. “I wish I knew.”


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock heard the pair of footsteps coming up the stairs to the flat. He knew the sounds of Greg’s footfalls. Why had the DI returned? His earlier visit had been enough to wear on the detective’s already frayed nerves.  **Most unwelcome.**

As the two men entered the flat, the detective could feel the weight of their gaze fall upon him. The sensation of crawling skin that he had been experiencing intensified. Using his most acerbic tone, Sherlock addressed the DI. “Back again to stare, Lestrade? I assure you, nothing has changed. Go away.”

Neither Greg nor John responded to Sherlock’s outburst. They were too absorbed in their own thoughts. Both of them were trying to find the least confrontational and threatening positions in the room for the upcoming discussion. Both had dealt with rape victims in the past in the course of their jobs, so they were familiar with many of the possible reactions they could expect. But this was painfully different. Not only was this a friend, this was  _Sherlock_ , a man who was unpredictable at the best of times.

The doctor pulled the coffee table a short distance from the sofa, earning him a quick glance over the shoulder from the detective. When it was far enough away, Greg nodded as if in approval and sat at the far end, near Sherlock’s feet. John took the opposite end, near his friend’s head. An awkward silence fell over the flat. Neither man was eager to be the first to talk.

He could feel the pressure building. They had more questions. He had thought it was over. Suddenly he was so very tired. Sherlock would not succumb to the lethargy that was growing by the moment. He fought it with anger. Unfortunately, that anger was aimed at his friends. “Go ahead. Ask more of your ignorant questions and leave. For good this time.”

John took a deep breath and braced himself. “Sherlock, we don’t have any questions this time. We  _know_.” He rushed on before he could lose his courage. “I found your clothes in the bin that day and gave them to Molly for safe keeping. We didn’t have any reason to look at them until now.” Sherlock’s entire body had gone rigid. “Well, Greg had her take a look and the story is clear isn’t it?” He closed his eyes. “We know you were raped.” At this last, despite his best effort, John’s voice cracked.

A coiled rage emanated from the sofa. Sherlock had become both predator and prey in one body, his muscles taut. Even from the back, the sheer potential for  _something_  radiating from the man was intimidating.

Carefully, with the utmost control, the detective responded. “ _Never, repeat what you just said._ ” It felt as if John and Greg had been slapped with words of steel. “ _It never happened._ ”

Greg ran his hand through his hair, then leaned tiredly, one elbow on his right leg. “Sherlock, please. We all know better than that. Denial won’t help. As an officer, I should encourage you to report it, but as a friend, well, whatever you want. But please, let  _us_ help.”

**Go away. Go away. Go away.**  Sherlock didn’t want help. He didn’t want anyone to know. If he could, he would have erased the last day so that he could return to hiding and suffering in anonymity. If they would just leave him  _alone_ , he would be fine. The detective was sure that he would get over this in a few weeks. It couldn’t possibly take longer. It was just  _transport_  after all.

It was his turn again. “Sherlock, you didn’t let me see all of your injuries did you? From what Greg said, there was… a lot of blood. I’m sure you are suffering from anal fissures.” Sherlock wouldn’t appreciate coddling so John used blunt terms. “You need to have an exam to see how many and how severe they are. Is that why you’ve been eating so little?”

If possible, Sherlock tensed even more before finally allowing his body to collapse back onto the sofa. He buried his facing in the corner, where the armrest met the back and muttered a shaky response. “Yes.” 

The doctor was slightly encouraged. At least the man was acknowledging that it had happened, if obliquely. “So you’ll go to hospital.”

This time, the response was vehement, “No!”

Greg and John exchanged exasperated glances. “Be reasonable. You need to be checked out.” John had used his most calming voice. 

His flatmate shook his head into the sofa and let out a low growl. “Only you.”

The weight of the world, already on his shoulders, grew heavier. “Okay, Sherlock. I’d rather the hospital, but okay.” Thinking ahead of the detective for once, John made a suggestion, “And we’ll get Molly to check for STDs, yeah?” This earned him a reluctant nod from the other man.

The flat grew uncomfortably quiet again. Greg started, “You know, it’s not your fault.”

Sherlock’s response was immediate. “I’ll let John check my injuries, Molly can run her  _tests_.” He spat the last word out. “But that is all _._  Spare me your attempts at comfort and understanding. They are inept at best and highly unwelcome.”

John regarded Greg with a shrug. They would deal with the physical now and worry about the emotional later. “Right then. Greg, give us a few minutes while I examine the rest of Sherlock’s injuries. After that, we’ll take a ride to Barts.” He started to grasp the detective’s arm then stopped himself. “Come on Sherlock, let’s do this.”

For the first time, the tall man shifted from his position on the couch. As he stood; his body weak from days of neglect, once again betrayed him and he started to fall. Sherlock reached out and grasped John by the arm. Together, they slowly made their way to the detective’s bedroom where John could examine him in privacy.

* * *

The doctor was far from happy. The bruising that Sherlock had managed to hide previously followed the expected pattern around the detective’s waist, and more pronounced, his hips; however, over two weeks of healing had ensured that they were well on their way to fading. Of more concern were the anal fissures. They were significant enough that they would cause discomfort for several more weeks. He would have to ensure that Sherlock’s diet included ample fibre and that he drank plenty of water. If he could get the man to take a warm bath instead of one of the frequent showers with which he was obsessed, that would help as well. Finally, John would prescribe glyceryl trinitrate ointment for topical application.

John kept his voice clinical as he had during the examination. “Let’s get you ready to go to Barts.”

“No.” Sherlock’s voice was hard.

The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose. “You agreed, Sherlock.”

His dressing gown wrapped tightly around himself, the detective made his way from the room, John following.

The doctor’s voice rose in frustration. “Sherlock, you agreed!”

“I agreed to no such thing.” He walked with a pronounced limp, the bruising on his left leg still incredibly painful, but made his way without assistance. “I agreed to specific blood tests, I never agreed to leave the flat.” Ignoring Greg, he folded his body onto the sofa and turned his back to the room once again.

“What’s this?” The DI turned to question John.

“He’s refusing to go to the lab.” The doctor’s hands were fisted at his sides. “Say’s he won’t leave the flat.”

“Can you draw the blood samples?” Greg sounded calm. He wasn’t really surprised at the pronouncement, not after what he had observed of Sherlock’s behaviour.

John shook his head even as he answered, “Yes, I  _could_. If I had the equipment here, which of course I don’t.” He was at the breaking point. This was an impossible situation and he just wanted to break something, hit something, shout, but John’s eyes fell on his flatmate and he forced the feelings down once more. Sherlock didn’t need to be witness to a display right now.

The DI took over. “Call ahead to Molly and have her prepare what you need to take blood samples.” He waited for John to nod. “I’ll go get everything and bring it back. You can take the samples without the need for Sherlock to go anywhere.”

Sounding incredibly tired, John agreed. “Thanks, Greg.” He looked at his flatmate with concern. “We’ll be right here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [madeleinefs](http://archiveofourown.org/users/madeleinefs/pseuds/madeleinefs) for her wonderful fan art. Find her works at [madeleinefs](http://madeleinefs.deviantart.com).
> 
>  


	8. Chapter 8

John had expected Greg to walk through their door after hearing footsteps on the stairs. He should have known better because this had been the day from hell.

The doctor's mind went into overload at the sight of Mycroft, umbrella in hand, face falsely placid. Part of his mind was grateful that the man was here. It showed that he cared. Another part of his mind wanted to usher him from the flat to prevent the upcoming confrontation. The largest part of his mind wanted to tear Mycroft limb from limb for letting this happen to Sherlock. It was the largest part that won.

Before Mycroft could react, before Sherlock had even registered his presence, John was manhandling the man out of the flat and down the stairs. It didn't matter that the man was the British Government. In that moment, he was just a man and John was going to have it out with him then and there!

"How the fuck did you let this happen and why the hell did you leave me in the dark for over  _two fucking weeks_!" The doctor's nostrils flared and his hand clenched in the lapel of Mycroft's suit coat.

The older Holmes didn't flinch in the face of John's anger, but his eyes narrowed dangerously. The resulting expression was a cold glare, but it was not meant for the doctor. It was meant for whoever had hurt his baby brother. "I assure you, John, I didn't  _let_  this happen to my brother. Furthermore, I am as yet uninformed as to what  _this_  is." He had remained very still and had kept his voice level, not wishing to provoke the doctor to further action. Whatever had happened was obviously far beyond bad for John to be acting in this manner.

The doctor's blue eyes searched Mycroft's face. What he saw must have satisfied him in some manner because he released his hold upon the other man and took a step back. John dry washed his face, then dropped his hands to clench into fists at his sides. "Sherlock was attacked sixteen days ago. It was... brutal." The doctor had changed what he was going to say at the last moment. Mycroft didn't fail to notice 

The older Holmes brother smoothed the lapel of his coat before he spoke. "My brother has been severely injured on prior occasions without you showing this level of concern. What is different this time, Doctor?"

This time it was John's eyes that narrowed. "Why are you here, Mycroft? The timing is remarkable. You claim ignorance, but here you are." The dangerous gleam was back in the doctor's eyes.

Had any other man treated Mycroft in this manner or levelled such a gaze in his direction, said individual would already have disappeared. The fact that all of John's anger was on behalf of Sherlock earned him his freedom and his life. It also earned him Mycroft's respect.

The older Holmes glanced down with a sigh. When he looked back up, he explained about the cameras in the flat and how one of his people had observed the events that had taken place earlier in the day. He explained that, as soon as it had been brought to his attention, he had dropped everything to come straight to 221B.

There was silence for a moment, then John's anger flared anew. "Then you do know about the rape so quit fucking around with me!"

The impact of John's words was dramatic. Mycroft's face went blank and his umbrella fell from his hand. In an instant, the doctor's demeanour shifted from that of restrained fury to deep concern.

Even as John urged Mycroft to sit on the stairs, he berated himself for his stupidity. Meeting no resistance, he loosened the tie around Mycroft's neck and unbuttoned the top two buttons of the other man's shirt. He was about to speak, but Mycroft beat him to it.

"The cameras don't capture sound. I knew that he was injured and that heated words had been exchanged, but..." Mycroft's stunned mind put the facts together. "When you disappeared into his room, you gave him a second examination, didn't you?" There was nothing left of the Iceman. There was only the big brother who always worried about Sherlock.

John hadn't thought that the day could get any worse, then he had gone and cocked it up with Mycroft. He didn't deserve to learn what had happened to his brother this way. "Christ. I thought you knew. I'm such an idiot."

Already, the older Holmes brother was pulling himself back together. He had one agenda now and that was seeing to his baby brother. He knew that John would take care of Sherlock as best he could. The doctor would do far better than Mycroft himself as his presence would only irritate his brother after a short while.

The expression on Mycroft's face was chilling. "What of the  _creature_  that attacked Sherlock? What happened to him?"

John shook his head as he pinched the bridge of his nose. "I honestly don't have any idea. It wasn't my top priority when I talked to Sherlock. I was more concerned with his physical and mental condition." He turned and walked away the few steps that the landing allowed. "Fuck! That monster could still be out there."

The older Holmes brother stood to his feet. "I'll have my people check the CCTV records from that time and see what can be learned." Mycroft turned and looked up the stairs towards the flat. "Now, I need to see my baby brother."

* * *

When John had rushed the visitor from the flat, Sherlock had tucked himself deeper into the sofa. When he heard the occasional raised voice rising up the stairwell, he had started to shake. It had only vaguely registered that one of the voices belonged to John. The other voice didn't register at all.

Several long minutes later, the shouting had subsided and, along with it, Sherlock's tremors. If he hadn't recognised the sound of John's footsteps accompanying their visitor he would have started shaking anew - that or he would have fled the room altogether.

When he failed to emerge from the sofa upon their entering the flat, John called his name. "Sherlock?" There was only a grunt for a response. "Mycroft is here. He's worried about you."

The detective felt a wave of frustration wash over him. If Mycroft was here, now, it only meant one thing: his brother knew. It seemed to Sherlock as if the entire world knew. He gave out a great roar and struck the back of the sofa, putting all his pent up anger behind the blow.

For one long minute absolute silence reigned in the flat. It was broken by the sound of Mycroft’s voice. “John, would you mind giving us a bit of time alone?”

The doctor hesitated for a moment before nodding his agreement. “Sherlock, I’ll be upstairs. Call if you need anything.” The look that John levelled at Mycroft made it clear that he would accept no sniping at his best friend. Mycroft’s answering look made it clear that the admonishment was unwarranted.

Once the brothers were alone, Mycroft allowed himself to heave a great sigh. “I’ll not ask any questions Sherlock. Just know that I’ve always cared.” He felt completely helpless. The best that he could hope for was that John Watson could keep his brother alive long enough to heal.

Sherlock shifted about on the sofa, wincing, and finally ended in a sitting position facing Mycroft. The look on his brother’s face burned him. “Don’t, Myc.” It was a feral growl.

Mycroft’s expression didn’t change; it was a mixture of sadness and pity. “Don’t what, little brother?”

“I recognise that look, Myc. You wore it often enough when I was in rehab. I’m fine. Now leave.” Sherlock threw the Union Jack pillow at his brother’s head for emphasis.

Mycroft stood reluctantly, preparing to leave. “If that’s what you need.” He paused at the door. “Do one thing for me, baby brother. Please. Listen to John.” With that, Mycroft left the flat and closed the door behind him.

Sherlock stared at the closed door for a long time.

He  _would_  listen to John.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning:
> 
> The precursors of the rape are described in detail. However, the description gets interrupted before progressing too far along.

I am trusting you John Watson. Take care of Sherlock for me. My presence is only an irritant. - MH

Inform me if he provides useful information regarding the attack. - MH

John read the two messages on his phone and realised that Mycroft had already left the flat. The man had spent less than ten minutes with his brother. If he hadn't seen for himself the pain in the other man's eyes, he would have thought him cold and heartless. As it was, he knew that Mycroft cared for his brother and was showing it the only way he knew how.

Making his way ploddingly downstairs, the doctor wondered what he would find. The calm figure of Sherlock lost in contemplation was the last thing he had expected to see. The transformation was bewildering and, John knew, couldn't last for long.

"Mycroft's gone, I see." John cringed inwardly, waiting for the inevitable "Obvious" but it never came. Unsure what to say to his friend, the doctor decided in favour of action instead of words. He went to the kitchen and started scrounging for food. Though not the detective's favourite food, the oatmeal that John found would do nicely - it was high in fibre. With the addition of some cinnamon and apple chunks, he should be able to coax his friend into eating at least some of it.

Sherlock had been watching John through narrowed lids and so was not startled by his friend's approach. He knew that the doctor wanted him to eat, but the smell of the oatmeal was making him nauseous. When John sat the bowl down on the coffee table, Sherlock rolled to face the back of the sofa once more. He berated himself inwardly - he was already breaking his silent promise. 

John tried to get his flatmate’s attention and failed miserably - his gentle encouragement and urging had no effect. It was with a sense of resignation that the doctor turned and walked to his chair. He might not be able to get the other man to eat, but he could watch over him.

After some time, an uneasy sleep fell over Sherlock. He was haunted by dark, vague dreams… dreams in which he was being pursued through streets and dark alleys. The dreams coalesced into a nightmare of remembrance.

_Sherlock felt his injured leg collapse under his weight as he tried to flee his attacker. He scrambled on his hands and knees and managed to climb off of the escalator. When the heavier man fell upon him, Sherlock kicked out viciously with his good leg winning a moment of freedom. It didn’t last long – his injured leg simply wouldn’t hold his weight. The blow to his ribcage drove all air from his lungs and he was left writhing on the floor._

_Sherlock’s attacker grabbed him by the wrists and dragged him to the nearby public toilets, locking the door behind him. The station was mostly deserted and the individuals that were there were unlikely to risk involvement by calling the police. The detective hoped fervently that someone was watching the CCTV feed. If any aid was to be forthcoming - even now he hated to admit it - it would be from Mycroft._

_Following another blow to his ribcage, his attacker reached down and grasped Sherlock by his hair and pulled him to a kneeling position. The detective closed his eyes and tried to recover his breath, but it was difficult to do with the pain in his side flaring with each breath. It took all of Sherlock’s concentration so he didn’t notice when the burly man released his grip on him._

_The detective’s eyes shot open when he felt his attacker’s hands on his shirt. With a quick, fierce motion, Sherlock’s shirt was ripped open, buttons flying in every direction. A look of proprietary lust had fixed itself on the face of the burly man standing over him. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy you.” For the first time since this had begun, Sherlock panicked._

John called out Sherlock’s name several times to no avail. He started to shake his friend awake, then remembered what his own reaction had been when Sherlock had done that to him mid-dream. It hadn’t been pretty. As a last resort, he ran to the kitchen and fetched a glass of water. He tossed it at the detective.

Cold water shocked Sherlock to wakefulness. John's doing. He came to himself on the sofa, chest heaving and body shaking. Finally, John’s voice reached the detective through the remembered fear. “… safe. You’re home, at 221B. Sherlock, you’re safe…” The doctor continued speaking words of reassurance and comfort as, slowly, Sherlock’s breathing steadied and his body stopped shaking. He didn’t- couldn’t speak to reassure his friend that he was okay. It didn’t matter, John wouldn’t have believed him anyway.


	10. Chapter 10

John had fetched a towel for Sherlock to dry himself with and was standing with it outstretched to his friend. The detective looked up at him through dripping curls. The look in his eyes was slightly mad and the doctor thought that Sherlock might attempt to dart away again.

"Tell him that I don't want to do it today." Sherlock's look was pleading but John was completely confused. "John, I swear, you can draw blood tomorrow, but right now... I just can't. All of this," he gestured around wildly, "has just been too much."

"Right." John realised that he was still holding the towel in mid-air. "Get dried off, change your clothes, and I'll let Greg know."

Sherlock took the towel and stood. John watched as his friend made his way painfully from the room. Giving himself a little shake, he drew his phone from his pocket.

Forget coming back to the flat tonight. Will draw blood tomorrow. - JH

Understood. Probably best. I've been kidnapped. - GL

Mycroft? - JW

Yes - GL

Don't leave me out of this. - JW

Several long moments passed.

Greg! - JW

When no reply was forthcoming, John slammed his phone down on the nearby desk. He started toward the door, but stopped himself halfway there. Sherlock needed him, he couldn't leave.

**Bloody buggering fuck.**

* * *

Greg was just about to enter Barts when the black sedan pulled up to the kerb. He let out a great sigh and hung his head. It had been seven years since his last abduction, but he hadn't forgotten the routine.

He redirected his footsteps toward the car and was unsurprised when a man stepped out of it and held the door open for him. He climbed in, the other man close on his heels. The DI didn't try to strike up a conversation, he had learned the futility of that years ago - Mycroft's minions were never forthcoming. Instead he sat back and tried to relax. It was a futile effort.

Three possibilities had gone through his mind when the sedan had pulled up to him. Since he was still alive, that rather eliminated the first possibility. The other possibilities were only  slightly less frightening. He sincerely hoped that he was about to be recruited and not merely raked over the coals.

Greg's phone pinged. He glanced at his silent companion before retrieving his phone. "It's from Doctor Watson." The other man gave him a curt nod.

Forget coming back to the flat tonight. Will draw blood tomorrow. - JH

Understood. Probably best. I've been kidnapped. - GL

Mycroft? - JW

Yes - GL

Don't leave me out of this. - JW

Greg understood how John felt. "He wants in." The DI received nothing but silence in response. His phone pinged again.

Greg! - JW

With a sigh, Greg turned off his phone and tucked it away. He would mention John's  _request_  to Mycroft if he was given the chance.

It didn't take long at all for Greg to be whisked into Mycroft's presence once they arrived at The Diogenes Club. He found himself facing the older Holmes brother who was standing in the middle of the room. "Mycroft."

"Gregory. Please, have a seat." He gestured to the chair nearest the DI. Greg took the proffered seat. "Let's not waste time with inanities, you know why you are here." Mycroft turned on the ball of his foot and stepped to his own chair. He seated himself and waited for a response.

"Yeah, well, if you want my warrant card, here it is." Greg had taken it out of his pocket and was offering it to Mycroft.

The other man regarded him with a quiet urgency. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs elegantly. "I do want your job, but not in the way you mean." Mycroft tipped his head back and peered at the ceiling. "I brought you here to tell you that, in less than three hours, two criminals in the custody of New Scotland Yard will escape. There will be a massive manhunt which will fail miserably."

Greg shifted nervously and nodded his understanding. "Why tell me?"

"Because, Gregory, you have a decision to make." Mycroft uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "You can be out there at the forefront of a pointless manhunt..."

"Or?"

"You can accept a temporary reassignment to the Home Office."

The DI smiled broadly. "Tell me more."

"You would be answerable to me. Only to me." Mycroft didn't shift his gaze. "Of course, you would be doing quite a bit of legwork and you would be getting your hands dirty."

Greg smiled. "Perfect. And John?"

All of the intensity left Mycroft in a rush as he sat back in his chair. "I rather think that his presence is required at 221B. He can't be involved."

"He'll never forgive us if we don't include him."

Mycroft actually grimaced. "I rather believe I can live without his forgiveness."

Greg stood, shaking his head vehemently. "You saw him. He needs to be a part of this."

The older Holmes stood. There was a moment of tension before Mycroft relented. "Very well, but only at the end."

The DI knew that that would have to do. "Good enough."


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock finally gained control of himself. Standing, he attempted to brush passed a very concerned John, but his injured leg had other ideas. The doctor reached out and caught him around the shoulders before he went down completely. Sherlock gritted his teeth at the contact, but managed not to flinch.

"Steady," John urged as Sherlock started moving towards his bedroom. He could feel the muscles of the detective's back and shoulders go rigid beneath his arm. Knowing that his touch probably felt invasive, John wanted to let go, but he knew that if he did, Sherlock would likely go down. He couldn't imagine how the detective had been managing the frequent showers he had been taking.

As they reached the kitchen door, Sherlock shrugged off the doctor's help and leaned against the doorframe. He had tolerated John's touch as long as he could, far longer than he could have put up with anyone else’s. Still, his skin was crawling where John's arm had rested. It didn't feel filthy, not like where  _he_  had touched him.

"Sherlock, please, let me help you," John urged, his heart aching in his chest.

The detective's hands balled into fists. "I can manage on my own. I haven't required your help before this and I certainly don't need it now." He could feel John's eyes boring into him and an irrational rage boiled up in his chest. His head snapped around and he glared at the doctor. "Stop your incessant staring. It's all you've done since... Stop it!" Sherlock lurched forward, then hobbled towards his room. He had to lean heavily on the table and then the walls, but he managed to traverse the distance and collapsed onto the bed with a grimace of pain.

John hesitated, knowing he wasn't wanted, but also knowing what was likely to happen next. He stood straight, and put on his best doctorly face and marched to the door of Sherlock's room. He stayed just outside, allowing the other man in his private space. "Speaking as your doctor, you should consider taking a warm bath rather than a shower. It would be beneficial."

Sneering, Sherlock spat, "I'll give your recommendation the consideration it warrants. Now, piss off." He rolled over and presented his back to John, willing him to just leave - thankfully, he did. The doctor was an idiot if he thought Sherlock would take a bath. No matter how hard he scrubbed his skin, he would still be sitting in that man's filth.

* * *

John took a steadying breath and reluctantly retreated back to the living room. Pulling out his mobile, he tried ringing Greg one more time. When that proved fruitless, he broke down and tried Mycroft. That was just as successful.

Sherlock could be heard shuffling around in his room, no doubt getting dry clothes to put on after he bathed. There was a stumbling sound and a loud crash. John started to go investigate, but stopped himself, knowing the detective's feelings were unlikely to have changed in the last two minutes.

Sighing, John made himself sit. He had to do something. Reaching over, he scooped his laptop off the floor and opened it. Pulling up a browser, he typed in 'rape male response'. A number of links came up, many of which proved to be of little or no use. Finally, he came across one that looked more promising: [rainn.org](http://rainn.org). He spent some time exploring the website until he found a page with the title 'Help Someone You Care About".

John was so absorbed in what he was reading that he didn't hear Sherlock make his way to the loo, he didn't hear the water run and he didn't hear it shut off once again. It wasn't until Sherlock hobbled his way into the living room that he realised how much time had passed. He hastily clicked out of the website and closed his laptop.

Sherlock paused in the doorway to the kitchen and shot a glare in John's direction. "You don't have to stop your 'research' just because I enter the room." He lay down on the sofa with his back to the room. Stupid, idiotic John. As if Sherlock were a  _normal_  person. As if he would  _react_  like a normal person. He pounded his fist into the back of the sofa and hissed in pain as it jarred his bruised ribs. "You're staring again!"

With a start, John jerked his eyes away from the back of his friend's head. He hadn't realised he'd been staring. Of course, Sherlock had noticed. "Sorry. I just wondered if you'd taken anything for pain lately."

The detective huffed his opinion of that.

"Right. Well, you'll take something now." At least John could do that much. He fetched his medical kit and opened it. He grabbed the bottle of paracetamol and poured out two tablets into the palm of his hand. Hesitating briefly, he added a sleeping aid that he kept on hand. John got a glass of water and approached Sherlock, being certain to make noise. "Here you go, Sherlock." The doctor sighed at the lack of response. "Take these and I promise I'll leave you alone."

Sherlock growled, but braced himself for the pain. He rolled to sitting and took the meds and water in hand. Swallowing the tablets and chasing it with water, the detective shoved the glass back into John's hand. "Satisfied?"

John wasn't satisfied, not by a long shot, but he nodded and retreated to his chair to stand watch until Sherlock fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The website mentioned, [rainn.org](http://rainn.org) is only one of many helpful resources online.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock woke several hours later in the wee hours of the morning. His surprise at having slept was quickly replaced by the deduction that John had giving him something to make him sleep. Whatever it was had made him sleep so soundly he hadn't dreamt. Perhaps he could use it every night. Oh, he knew what John would say, sleep aids were addictive, but it was that or no sleep at all.

He rolled over on the sofa, intent on getting up and getting something to drink, only to find the doctor asleep in his red chair. John had drifted off with the laptop still on his lap. In the quiet of the night, Sherlock didn't feel so angry with the doctor. He felt sad and ashamed. Both for his behaviour and because John knew everything. John knew what a failure and unclean thing the detective was.

Sherlock felt tears welling up in his eyes and grew angry with himself. He was weak. What had happened to him had happened over two weeks ago. He should be over it by now. It shouldn't hurt so much. He shouldn't be inflicting himself on John and causing him to worry and he was worried. The detective could see it in the lines of John's sleeping face. He should leave until he had pulled himself together. Sherlock looked at the door, but he knew he couldn't leave the flat. He didn't know if he would ever be able to again.

Leaning heavily on different pieces of furniture, Sherlock made his way quietly to the kitchen and drew himself a glass of water. He leaned against the counter and drank, letting his eyes fall shut for a moment. He needed something that would let him forget, if only for a little while... but, no, John would never approve and again, he was trapped here. Unless... he could arrange something with the homeless network. It wasn't the first time the thought had occurred. The problem was, Sherlock didn't trust them, not anymore. The number of people he trusted now was incredibly small. He'd have to make do without the aid of his favourite drug.

In the living room, John shifted and the laptop fell to the floor with a clatter. Sherlock started, dropping the glass which shattered, sending glass everywhere. The detective's heart raced and he found himself hunched down on the floor, his leg and ribs aching. It didn't matter though, the pain, as reality had distorted itself around him.

John had been startled awake by the laptop hitting the floor, then further startled by the sound of shattering glass. Even in the middle of the night, he came to full alertness, his concern for Sherlock having set him on edge. He looked towards the sofa. Not finding his roommate there, he turned towards where the sound of breaking glass had come. Seeing Sherlock huddled on the floor, the doctor leapt to his feet and flew to his side, crouching down as glass crunched under his shoes. "Sherlock," he said calmly, "we're in the flat. A glass broke. That's all." The detective didn't seem to be having a full fledged panic attack, but he clearly wasn't okay. "Can you look at me?"

Sherlock blinked at the sound of John's voice. It gounded him, pulled him back from the edge of the waking nightmare that had threatened to claim him. He struggled to focus on the doctor's face, finally managing it after what seemed forever, but in reality had taken only a few moments. "John," he croaked, uncertain of his voice. Uncertain of anything except his trust in the man before him. "What do I do?"

John reached behind him and grabbed a chair with one hand and pulled it over. "Sit in this, but mind the glass since you're bare footed." He waited until the detective was safely seated, his feet up on the bottom rung of the chair. "Alright. Let me clean this mess, then we'll get you to bed."

"No!" Sherlock shook his head violently. He couldn't sleep in there. For some reason, it made him feel trapped. He wanted his sofa, his safe place. "No, I won't..."

"Shh, alright. It's fine. You can stay on the sofa." John knew that was where the detective had slept since it had happened. It wasn't the best place for him, but it would have to do. "Its fine. I'll get this cleaned up, then you can go back to the sofa. Maybe we can watch some crap telly." That was certain to be all that was on at this hour, but the doctor doubted either of them would be getting back to sleep any time soon.


	13. Chapter 13

It was almost six in the morning and both John and Sherlock were awake. The detective was laying on the sofa, actually facing the room for the first time in over two weeks. He reached out and grabbed an old newspaper that was laying on the coffee table. Idly, he started wadding up the pages and dropping them to the floor. After some time, he started tossing the wadded papers at John.

The doctor looked over at Sherlock surprised. "Yeah?" He stretched. "You need something?"

Sherlock felt somewhat better about John knowing. At least he didn't have to hide anymore. He cleared his throat. "Lestrade can bring the collection kit by the flat." He kept wadding up the newspaper and tossing it to the floor. "You'd better draw the blood before I change my mind."

"Right." John shot off a text to Greg, knowing the DI would check his phone first thing once he woke. "How do you feel?"

With a withering glare, Sherlock shifted and sat up on the sofa. The doctor didn't miss how he winced.

"I'm fine," the detective declared. He started tearing the next page of the paper into strips.

John berated himself for even asking. Instead of arguing, he stood and fetched more paracetamol and a glass of water. When he handed the tablets to the detective, Sherlock glared at them.

"Are you knocking me out again?"

Of course, Sherlock had figured it out. "No. They're just paracetamol. I promise. Take them." He pressed the glass of water into the detective's other hand.

Sherlock swallowed the tablets almost viciously and slammed the glass down on the coffee table. "You could have told me what you were giving me yesterday."

"Would you have taken the sleeping pill?" John asked. After a pause during which the detective didn't speak, John continued, "No, you wouldn't have." Reaching over, he grabbed the bin by the desk and set it on the coffee table. "You can clean up you mess, because I won't do it."

The detective gave him a reproachful look.

"Nope. You made the mess. You clean it up." It was a little thing, but John wasn't going to treat Sherlock like an invalid. Where there were legitimate issues, he would respect them, but he wouldn't enable this kind of behaviour.

Begrudgingly, Sherlock began to pick up the papers. He moved slowly, but it was doable without much pain. He threw the balls of paper into the bin almost viciously and found he rather enjoyed it. The only thing that could make it better was if they made a shattering sound upon impact.

The detective regarded John once he had cleaned up his mess. "I want you to go out today." He lay back down on the sofa. "You'll smother me if you stay here all the time."

"Sherlock..."

"I don't want you here," Sherlock spat, no longer feeling at ease.

John reminded himself that the detective had reason to be volatile. "I'm not going anywhere until I've drawn blood for the test. After that, we can talk about it." He walked to the kitchen and made coffee. He desperately needed the caffeine to deal with the day. While he was there, he fixed breakfast for them. The doctor figured that would keep him out of his flatmate's way for a bit. When he was done, he set breakfast on the coffee table.

Sherlock had turned his back on the room. He looked over his shoulder and saw the bowl of oatmeal sitting there. He just couldn't make himself eat it. Instead, he buried his face in the sofa cushions and tried to pretend John wasn't there, that it was a normal day and he was simply in a strop.

John's phone rang. It was Lestrade letting him know he was outside 221. "I'll be right back. Greg's here with the kit for the blood draw." He rushed down the stairs, keeping quiet so as not to disturb Mrs. Hudson. When he opened the door, the DI was waiting on the pathway.

"Morning, John." Greg held out the collection kit. "How's he holding up?"

"I don't know." The doctor looked over his shoulder. "About the same, I guess. For the most part, he seems less... defensive, but he doesn't want me to stay with him. I don't know what to do. If I leave him, he might... I don't know," he finished helplessly.

The DI sighed, his face a study in sympathetic understanding. "Yeah. I don't know what he might do either." He stood there feeling at a loss. "Anyway. Are you going to draw the blood sample now? If you are, I can wait."

"I'd better do it before he changes his mind." John gestured for Greg to come inside. "Maybe you should wait here. "I'll be right back." He left Lestrade waiting downstairs and went up to complete his very necessary task.


	14. Chapter 14

John reentered the flat carrying the collection kit. He approached the sofa and the man laying on it and stopped just in front of it. "Sherlock. Come on. I've got the kit. Let's get this over and done with."

The detective glared at the cushion for a moment, then rolled over, sitting up and not letting his pain show on his face. "Carry on, doctor." Sherlock stuck an arm out in John's direction. He refused to look at the other man. If he didn't, then this wasn't happening, none of this had happened. He barked a bitter laugh at his own efforts at self deception.

There was the feeling of the tourniquet at his arm and the bite of the needle, but it wasn't followed by an euphoric high. Sherlock closed his eyes and retreated to his Mind Palace. The halls were dark and claustrophobic. They were no longer the safe refuge they had been in the past. The further he wandered, the darker the corridors grew. They shifted and morphed until they took on the shape of the abandoned station. The detective wheeled about, knowing he wasn't alone...

"All done." John rolled Sherlock's sleeve down. When the detective failed to respond, he tried again, "Oi! Sherlock! I'm done."

Sherlock snapped back into reality, pulling his arm back abruptly. "Good. Go away."

The doctor heaved a heavy sigh. "I'll take this down to Greg, then I'll be right back." John didn't wait for a response which was just as well since Sherlock didn't give him one. After he had given the DI the blood samples and said goodbye, he closed the front door to 221 and leaned heavily against it. The last thing he wanted to do was to go back upstairs and sit in the flat with a man who didn't want him there, but there was nothing for it. He pushed himself away from the door and climbed the stairs one at a time.

As John traversed the 17 steps to their flat, he thought about the website he had visited and what he had read. It had suggested that one of the best things Sherlock could do for himself would be to see a psychiatrist. The doctor snorted. That wasn't likely to happen. Maybe he should see Ella himself. She might be able to give him some ideas on how to help his friend cope with what had happened to him. The website had been helpful, but not helpful enough.

Back in the flat, John did a double take. Sherlock wasn't on the sofa. In fact, he was nowhere to be seen. He sighed. The detective was probably taking another shower. A quick glance down the hall put that idea to rest. The detective appeared to be in his bedroom. That was certainly a change. He couldn't help but wonder what this new development meant. John worried and fretted, finally putting the kettle on. About the time the tea was ready, Sherlock emerged from his room fully dressed.

The detective kept his eyes forward and pretended not to notice his friend gaping at him as he limped through to the living room. He had decided he had been a prisoner in his own home long enough. He couldn't stand it another moment, especially with John hovering over him constantly. Sherlock stood in front of the door and stared at the handle, willing himself to reach for it. When he did, his hand was shaking.

"What are you doing?" John's heart was beating double time. He couldn't keep his friend a prisoner in his own home.

The detective turned to glare at him. "Even with your limited brain capacity you should be able to see that I'm going out."

"But..."

"Shut up!" Sherlock opened the door and threw himself through it, gasping at the pain his sudden movements caused and stumbling. He caught himself against the wall with one hand. As soon as he was stable, he started down the stairs. Whatever John was saying to him, he steadfastly ignored. When he reached the front door, he called out without looking back, "Don't follow me." His tone was dark and menacing and brooked no argument.

Above, on the landing, John swore and watched him go. He immediately pulled out his mobile and phoned Mycroft.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for the acquisition of drugs.
> 
> I'm sorry, Sherlock's feet led him here. Just remember, there are people who care for him and they are looking out for him.

Sherlock immediately knew he had made a mistake in leaving the flat. He had known he wasn't up to it before he had done it, but he couldn't take John's stifling presence any longer. He felt like every eye was upon him, like everyone saw him as a weak easy mark. His hands were sweaty and he could feel himself shaking. A woman bumped into Sherlock and he nearly panicked, but he moved over and stood by the nearby wall. Only his stubbornness kept him from turning and fleeing for the shelter of home.

The detective made his way along the streets of London by sticking close to the walls and sticking to the shadows. He did, however, avoid the alleys which used to be his friends. That meant he had to take more direct, visible routes and his leg ached something awful. Still, Sherlock avoided the CCTV network whenever possible and finally made his way into a club which had been an old haunt of his in years past. He scouted the loud, dimly lit club briefly, then spotted an empty table in a corner which he appropriated for himself and he sank down gingerly in the seat, hiding from the chaos in the room and the world at large.

The detective hadn't intended to come here, but it was so loud and raucous, he could lose himself in it. That was just what he did for a time, lose himself. Sherlock didn't admit to himself why he had come here. Now that he was here, though, he found himself looking around for any faces he might recognise. He still didn't think he could bring himself to trust anyone, but he wouldn't be making a trade in a dark alley or even a back room. Those thoughts made him realise why he had come. Within 15 minutes, Sherlock had spotted three dealers, none of which he knew. He was getting annoyed and the music was starting to irritate him when he spotted a fourth that he did recognise. The detective shot what passed for a smile his way and gave an odd little wave. The man slowly made his way across the club and took a seat across from Sherlock.

"Jimmy, may I buy you a drink?" Sherlock asked from the semi-darkness that covered his features.

The blond man chuckled. "I've never known you to be one for foreplay, Sherly. If you want to buy something, I have exactly what you want, just the way you like it." He held out a vial for Sherlock to see, then closed his hand around it.

The detective shoved a stack of bills at Jimmy and raised his eyebrow. "I still know the street prices. Don't fuck with me."

The dealer swallowed and handed over two vials, then started to take the money.

"Wait." Sherlock drew out a card and scribbled something on it, then tossed it on top of the bills. "You will come to the location on that card on that date and at that time with two more vials or I will turn you over to a good friend of mine, a Detective Inspector. Is that understood?"

Jimmy nodded frantically. "Yes, Sherly. Of course."

"Good. Now go away." Sherlock pocketed the vials and sat in obscurity for some time before he decided it was time to go back to Baker Street. He would have to hide the vials before entering, of course. He couldn't take the risk of John finding out. He would also have to do it without Mycroft finding out.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More mentions of drugs.

Sherlock had managed to get over halfway home when he spotted the black sedan approaching. He looked behind himself and saw two suited minions of Mycroft's. There were two more across the street. The only options open to him were to continue forward and meet the car or turn down the nearby alley. The detective looked in the direction of the alleyway and started shaking. He looked at it for several long moments, trying to force himself to go down it. Realising he couldn't, Sherlock leaned back against the wall where he stood and shook, unable to even move forward anymore.

Mycroft's minions at least had the good sense to stop their advance. They stood across the street and half a block away. The sedan had stopped just down the street in the direction Sherlock had been going. The door opened and, rather than Mycroft, Greg Lestrade stepped out. The part of the detective's brain that hadn't been shut down by panic recognised it as a brilliant move on his brother's part. He stayed where he was, still shaking as Greg approached.

"Sherlock," Lestrade said quietly, stopping several paces away from his clearly distraught friend. "John's worried about you. I'm worried about you."

The detective gave a snort and edged away from Lestrade a few inches. His hand was in his pocket, clenched around his prize. "Mycroft sent you because he's scared I'll start using again. You agreed to come because you think he's right. You're only concern is that you're trained monkey won't be able to perform anymore." His free hand scratched along the brick of the wall.

"You're half right," the DI agreed. "We're terrified you'll start up again... or do something worse. But the rest is where you're wrong. I don't give a rat's ass if you ever work another case." Greg took a few steps closer. "You're my friend and I want you to be alright." He waited for that to sink in. "Just let me give you a ride home."

Sherlock looked at the DI warily. "Aren't you going to ask?"

Lestrade knew this was dangerous ground to tread. He had to handle things just right or it would all be for nothing. He looked casually down the street. "Do you want me to ask?"

Pulling his hand from his pocket, Sherlock handed Greg the two vials. They clinked together as they fell into the DI's palm. He nodded, then pocketed them.

"Baker Street?" Greg asked.

The detective nodded and pushed himself away from the wall. When he did, the black sedan pulled up closer. Lestrade opened the door to the car and Sherlock hesitated. Anthea smiled back at him from the driver's seat. After several long moments, he climbed into the car, curling up in the far corner against the door. Greg sighed with relief and climbed in after him.

The ride was exquisitely painful in its silence. As they turned onto Baker Street, Sherlock found his voice. "I never understood why you care."

"At first, because you were a brilliant kid and I didn't want to see you throw your life away," Greg admitted. "Later, because you were useful. Now, dammit, because you're my friend. Store that in your Mind Palace thingy John talks about all the time and don't delete it."

The car pulled to a halt outside 221.

Sherlock curled up even smaller, his thoughts turning to John. "I might have... bullied someone into bringing me more." He glanced at Greg who merely nodded, unsurprised. In fact, the DI had been planning on keeping a keen eye on the flat. He still would. 

"Tell me when and where to expect him. I'll let him know his services are no longer required."

"Thank you." The detective didn't make a move to exit the car. "How angry is he," Sherlock asked in a small voice.

"John? He's more worried than anything. I'll come up with you if you want?"

"Please."

"Alright." The DI stepped out of the car and held the door open for his friend. He was grateful that Mycroft had known what he was doing, sending him instead of coming himself. Sherlock's reaction to his brother wouldn't have been nearly as receptive.

Greg followed a limping Sherlock up and into the flat where they were met by a greatly relieved John. It was obvious the doctor wanted to hug his flatmate, but he held himself back, settling for saying, "Thank God, you're alright."


	17. Chapter 17

Suddenly, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to be hugged by John. He wanted to feel those strong protective arms around him. Good, safe, stable John Watson who would never hurt him. The doctor was the one person he knew he could trust above all others. Oh, he could trust Lestrade and Mycroft, but not like he could trust John. He already trusted the man with so much. He felt tears burning his eyes and dashed them away with his coat sleeve. The detective might want his friend to hug him, but he didn't deserve it and never would. He was damaged goods and always had been. Now he was soiled, filthy and debased as well.

Greg met John's eyes over the detective's shoulder and mouthed, "We'll talk later," then he quietly left the flat. He fully intended to inform John about the drugs and to put him on alert in case Sherlock had made contacts he hadn't told him about.

The doctor took a hesitant step towards his friend, his hands held out to his side so they could be seen. "I'm glad you're home. I really am." He had been nearly ill with worry whilst Sherlock had been missing.

"I don't know why," Sherlock croaked, "I'm nothing but a burden."

"Wrong," John said in a fairly good impression of Sherlock. "You're my friend. True friends can never be a burden." He took another step closer, hands still held out in plain view. "Can I hug you? I was so scared."

Sherlock looked at the floor and shook his head, backing up a bit.

"It's fine. It's good." The doctor stepped back, disappointed, but not surprised. "I suppose it's going to take some time for you to trust again." He felt like an idiot for even asking.

The detective gave a broken, nearly hysterical laugh. "I trust you, but I'm... dirty." He could feel the filth on his skin even now.

"No, you're not!" John had spoken loudly and he swore at himself when he saw Sherlock cringe. He held out his hands in front of himself. "Sorry. Sorry. I didn't mean to shout, but you're not dirty. Nothing that creature did to you can ever make you dirty. Please!" John pleaded, "Please believe me." He held out one hand before him. "Take it. Hold it. You're not dirty." Go on, take it, he urged silently.

Sherlock's hand shook as he reached out and took the doctor's. When he grasped it, he held on so tight that John winced, but he didn't say anything. The detective took a step closer, then another, until he rested his head on John's shoulder. Ever so slowly, the doctor brought his free arm up to wrap around Sherlock's shoulders. He couldn't believe he was holding his friend like this. Suddenly, the detective broke out into great sobs. He cried and cried and cried for what, to John, seemed an eternity. He didn't know what to do except hold him through it, so that's what he did. After some time, John realised there were words mixed in with Sherlock's sobs.

"I had it. I was going to use it to make it all go away, the pain." Sherlock shook through his confession. "I gave it to Lestrade. I still want it, John. I don't want to feel like this. It would make it... make it..."

"Drugs are an illusion, Sherlock," John said, now stroking his friend's hair. "You don't need them. You have me. And Greg and your brother. We'll get through this. I promise." The doctor was amazed at the fact Sherlock had volunteered that bit of information. "I'm so proud of you. So proud." John started to kiss Sherlock's temple, then realised what he was doing. He almost panicked and shoved the detective away. Instead, he helped Sherlock to the sofa. "I'll make tea and we can both calm down. Later, we'll watch crap telly, yeah? It'll make us both feel better. You can even shout at it a bit."

The detective lay down on his side on the sofa and curled into a ball, wiping his eyes. He gave John a wan smile, but at least he tried.


	18. Chapter 18

As the day waned to evening and evening turned into night, Sherlock started to draw back in on himself. He dreaded the time when John would leave him for the night. Oh, he knew the doctor would try to sleep in his chair again, but Sherlock couldn't allow it, no matter how much he might want to. He wasn't an idiot and had observed how stiff and sore the doctor's shoulder had been throughout the day. It didn't matter that nights were lonely and filled with dread without John's comforting presence.

John stood and stretched, working the kinks out of his muscles and paying special attention to his left shoulder. He frowned a bit as he noticed the time, then headed up to his room. "I'll be right back," he assured his friend.

"Mm, no need." Sherlock struggled to keep his voice level as he spoke. "It's late, you should go to bed."

"That's the general idea," the doctor agreed. "I'm going to grab a few things and make a pallet. It's better than sleeping in the chair again." And he'd still be in the same room as the detective.

"No. That's ridiculous." Sherlock sat up gingerly, his bum still aching. "I'll be perfectly fine by myself." It was a lie, but he was sticking by it.

John stubbornly shook his head. "I want to be nearby if you need me. In case the medication wears off or if you just decide you don't want to be alone." **Or if you have another of those bloody nightmares. I need to be close by to wake you up.** John hated the thought of Sherlock suffering through nightmares alone. He knew what it was like all too well.

"That's... No. If you want to be nearby, sleep in my room. You can leave the door open. If I need you, I call and you'll be able to hear me."

After a few moments thought, John agreed. It was a good compromise. He knew he wouldn't be able to talk his friend into sleeping in his room anyway, why not use it himself? "Alright. I'll just run upstairs and change into my pyjamas, then I'll be back down."

Sherlock made a sound of acknowledgement, then pulled his knees up to his chest. His leg still hurt and would for some time, but he ignored it in favour of resting his chin on his knees. The detective still felt like hell. He still felt like an unclean thing that had been used and discarded, but John didn't seem to see him that way. He shouldn't have been surprised by that, John was special, but what about the rest of them? Mycroft, Greg, Molly? How did they see him now? Broken and pitiable at the very least. At the sound of John returning, Sherlock looked up and unfurled himself.

"Before I go to bed, do you need anything?" the doctor asked.

"No. I'll call you if I do."

John's gaze lingered on Sherlock for several moments before he gave himself a shake and headed towards his friends bedroom. "Night," he called behind him, not really surprised to get no response in return.

In the detective's bedroom, John pulled back the covers on his flatmate's bed and slid beneath them. He found himself listening for every tiny sound coming from the living room. Thankfully, it was quiet. There were no sounds of muffled tears or self recriminations to be heard.

The doctor thought back over the events of the day, specifically to that cathartic moment when Sherlock had finally given way to tears. John was under no illusion that that meant everything had been instantly cured, but he thought it was a good first step. Not to mention the detective had let John touch him, no, hold and comfort him. That had been nothing short of miraculous. He hoped that he would get the chance to do it again. There was nothing in this world he wanted more than to make Sherlock feel safe and loved. Nothing at all. John decided then and there to do whatever it took to make his friend feel that way, no matter how long it might take.


	19. Chapter 19

John answered his phone, knowing the call was from Sarah. He had missed eight days at the clinic, citing a family emergency. He would just have to tell her he couldn't come in to the clinic yet. Unfortunately, that's not how the call went. Sarah informed him that one of the other doctors had taken ill and they were unbearably short handed. She needed him to come in desperately. He was about to decline anyway when Sherlock told him, "Go. I'll be fine."

John covered the microphone on his phone. "But, Sherlock. What if..."

"If I need you, I'll call. If I start craving something, I'll have Hudders join me. Go." Sherlock needed a break from the constant hovering. Even more, he needed to know he could survive a day on his own. With the exception of when the detective had left the flat, he had had John's near constant companionship for eight days. It was growing stifling.

The doctor reluctantly agreed to go in to the clinic, then he rang off. "Are you certain about this?"

"Go," Sherlock repeated. "You can't babysit me forever." He met John's eyes steadily, refusing to show weakness.

The doctor looked away first. He had already dressed for the day and had but to put on his coat and walk out the door. He paused at the threshold. "You promised. Call if you need me." At Sherlock's curt nod, John left the flat for the clinic.

The detective was, well, not content, for the first thirty minutes or so, but was at least calm. After that, he grew restless. Sherlock tried to think what John would do, but he didn't want to make tea. He stood and limped to the nearest window. His leg still pained him, but not as badly as it had a week ago. He looked out at the people walking along the pathway without a care in the world. For the first time, he envied them and their normal lives. Sherlock let out a sigh.

"Mycroft, I know your listening. Don't panic and rush over just because John's gone out." His violin case caught his eye and he reached out to place his hand on it. "I'm not in the mood for a brotherly visit." Sherlock sighed again. It was easier to talk to Mycroft without him actually being present. He didn't have to endure the knowing looks and pitying glances. "I never wanted any of you to know, especially John. You know why and you know what has to be kept from him now at all costs. I'm a broken, dirty thing, Mycroft. Even if he should, by some miracle, reciprocate my feelings, I'm not good enough for him now. Promise me, Mycroft, you'll help me hide how I feel from him. Promise me you won't do something rash like tell him." Sherlock pulled his hand back from his violin case. "That's all I ask, Mycroft." Turning around, he went and did what John would do. He made tea.

* * *

Mycroft listened to his brother's words via a discrete earpiece that he wore at all times as of late. Sherlock's first words were so typical of him that the government official almost smiled. When his words turned more serious, though, the Ice Man's heart ached for his brother. As Sherlock continued to talk, pleading with Mycroft not to reveal his feelings for John, the government official dropped his head into his hands. The thought had never occured to him until his brother had mentioned it. Now, he wouldn't be able to get the idea out of his head.

John was a good person and would never think of Sherlock as dirty in any way for what had been done to him. Wouldn't the doctor be in a better position to help his brother if he knew how Sherlock truly felt about him?

Sherlock would hate Mycroft for such a betrayal of trust, but he had hated him before. The government official could live with it again if it meant his baby brother found psychological and emotional healing. Mycroft stood suddenly, palms resting on his desk. He remained that way, undecided, for quite some time.


	20. Chapter 20

John sat down behind his desk, exhausted. It was the first break he'd had all day. He pulled out his mobile and looked at it. There were no messages or missed calls. He wasn't sure that was a good thing. His mind had been halfway back at the flat all day with Sherlock, worrying about him. Now, all he wanted to do was to rush back home and check on him. Short of that, he at least wanted to call and see if he was alright. The doctor made himself set his phone down, though it was difficult. He sat back in his chair and dry washed his face, letting out a long sigh and trying to relax.

A blonde nurse stuck her head into John's office. "There's a gentleman here to see you, Doctor Watson." She looked incredibly nervous and jittery.

"I've told you, call me John," the doctor corrected her with a tired smile. "Did he give you his name?"

"Mr. Holmes." She looked back over her shoulder nervously as someone pulled the door open. Mycroft stepped up behind her.

John sighed and stood. "It's alright, Karen. Just give us a few minutes and see that we're not disturbed. Ta." As soon as the door closed, his entire demeanour changed. "Is he okay? Did something happen?" He could feel his heart racing as panic threatened to overtake him.

"Calm down, John. I assure you, he's fine." Mycroft sat, leaning his umbrella against his leg. "Please have a seat." He waited until the doctor had seated himself behind his desk. "I still have him under surveillance... increased surveillance and he really is alright. However, a matter has come to my attention." The government official went silent, staring at his hands. He was almost sure this was the right thing to do. 

"Have you found who did this to him?" John sat forward on the edge of his seat. "Tell me you have. Tell me that's why you're here. You're going to let me have a go at him." He clenched his left hand into a fist, wanting to feel it punch the bastard in the face.

Mycroft shook his head. "No. Greg and my people are still looking for him. I'm here about something more delicate."

The doctor braced himself. He wasn't sure he could take more bad news, but he'd do his best for Sherlock. "Alright. Go ahead. I'm ready."

"First, understand that my brother asked me explicitly not to tell you this. I'm breaking his trust in doing so." He held up his hand to forestall John's objection. "I wouldn't be telling you this if I didn't think it vital that you know. I'm willing to bear the consequences."

John frowned, but nodded. "Understood." He didn't necessarily trust Mycroft's judgement, but he would hear him out.

"John, my brother has feelings for you."

"Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft," John scoffed. "I would know it if he did." He would know it and he would have acted on that knowledge long ago. He'd had dreams where Sherlock told him he loved him. They'd always ended the same way, with the harsh light of reality waking him in the morning.

"I assure you, John, he does. He has never told you for fear of rejection. Now, he feels that he is... dirty. A ridiculous idea, I know."

"Dirty!" John shouted as he leapt to his feet. "He's nothing like dirty. He's innocent in all of this. It's that... creature that's filthy. I want that monster put down, Mycroft. Get him for me!" John was shaking in fury. He'd been suppressing it since the moment he found out what had happened to his friend. He'd told himself he couldn't get angry for Sherlock's sake. He had to keep calm, be the voice of sanity, but this was too much - to learn the detective had feelings for him and was afraid to tell him because he thought he was somehow dirty... 

"John. John! Doctor Watson!" Mycroft raised his voice until he got the doctor's attention. "I didn't tell you this to anger you. I told you this so you can help Sherlock."

"And how am I supposed to do that?" John asked, suddenly exhausted. He fell back into his chair and covered his face, his sudden outburst having drained him.

Mycroft leaned towards him. "Find a way to show my brother that he deserves to be loved. I know that's never been an easy task and this has just made it more difficult, but you have to do it. Show him that and convince him that he's not dirty."

The doctor laughed bitterly. "Is that it? You want me to perform a couple of miracles." He closed his eyes for a moment. "Of course I will. I'll try. How can I not?" If he didn't try, he would never forgive himself. "And I won't tell him you told me."

"He'll know." Mycroft sighed and stood. "Maybe not at first, he's not on his game, but he'll know."


	21. Chapter 21

John felt like he was walking a tight wire and he hadn't even entered the flat. He found himself pacing the length of Baker Street, bag in hand, and looking up at the windows to make sure Sherlock wasn't watching him. After Mycroft had left, the doctor had finished out his shift. Molly had called with body parts for Sherlock. John debated not going by to get them, but thought they might be good for his friend and give him something to do besides brood. The delay caused by picking them up had given him even more time to think. He knew he had a formidable task before him, convincing his best friend that he wasn't dirty, that he deserved to be loved, that John loved him unconditionally. The doctor had thought long and hard about where to start. He faced the door to 221 with determination. He'd start by addressing this 'dirty' business, but he'd have to be careful how he did it. Small steps, that was it. He squared his shoulders and headed into the flat.

He walked through the living room and into the kitchen, trying to clamp down on his agitation. “I’ve got something for you. Molly called. She said you weren’t answering your texts or phone, so she called me instead.” He opened the fridge. “She sent an appendix, a spleen, a gallbladder and a pancreas.” He put the bag with the organs into the drawer marked ‘experiments’. After that, he went to the sink and washed his hands. Very thoroughly. Much to his surprise, Sherlock had joined him in the kitchen. The doctor gave him a small smile. “I suppose you haven’t eaten today.”

Sherlock pulled a face. “Boring.” Everything about the day had been either boring or torturous in alternating intervals. As much as he had wanted John to leave him alone for the day, he had missed having him in the flat. He had felt hollow and abandoned, feelings that he knew were completely unjustified.

John grabbed a pear, washed it, and started slicing it, putting the slices on a plate. Handing it to his friend, he made sure their fingers brushed briefly. The detective jerked his hand back at the brief touch. The doctor let out a low, sad sigh. “Sorry. I get it. I really do, at least in theory.” He set the plate down on the table and turned away, filling the kettle and switching it on. He pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and sat. “You don’t trust me.” The doctor felt only slightly guilty for what he was doing, making the touching about him instead of Sherlock, but he had to break down the barrier that stood between them somehow.

“That’s not true.” Sherlock started down at his feet. Of course he trusted John. He trusted him more than anyone else in the world. How could John doubt that? The doctor was the only person that he could stand to be around now for any amount of time.

“You flinch and pull away every time we as much as brush up against one another.” John picked up a pencil and fiddled with it, giving his hands something to do. “Being touched by me disturbs you. You can’t help it.” The doctor glanced up at Sherlock’s face. “I don’t blame you for it.”

“I let you examine me,” Sherlock countered. “You had to touch me then.” If that wasn’t trust, then nothing was, surely John could see that.

The doctor looked at his friend sadly, letting all of the emotional pain that he had been hiding for so long show. “You let me do it because it was either me or a stranger. That’s the only reason. I… care about you, Sherlock. More than you know. Being shut out like this…” John let out a sigh and dropped the pencil to the table top. “I’m sorry. You have enough to cope with without worrying about me.” Secretly, John thought it might be good for his friend to stop dwelling on what had happened to him. At the same time, he felt like a manipulative bastard for what he was doing.

“I…” The detective didn’t know what to say. John was right, he hadn’t wanted to let his friend near him, but John’s reasoning was wrong. It wasn’t because he didn’t trust him, it was because the doctor shouldn’t be sullied by him. That and he simply hadn’t wanted anyone to know what had happened. Sherlock had feared that letting other people know would make it more real, somehow. “I trust you. I do.” He reached out a hand ever so hesitantly towards John’s. He paused for a moment, then, stepping closer to John, he grasped his friend’s hand, brow furrowed. Looking down at where their hands were joined, Sherlock swallowed. He knew he should pull his hand away, he didn’t deserve even this much comfort, but he didn’t, he let it rest there.

For his part, John regarded it as a small triumph.


	22. Chapter 22

Greg sat across from Mycroft in the visitors room at the Diogenes. His left hand rested on his knee, no gripped it. His right hand ran through his silver hair. He looked tired, worn thin, but determined. Mycroft offered him a drink, which he took gladly.

The government official took a sip of his scotch, then looked at the DI intently. "Gregory, since you're here, I assume you have good news for me."

Nodding, Greg spun his own glass of scotch around in his hands. "Yes, we've located the bastard." He took a sip of the scotch. "Barnes, Jamie Barnes is his name. We're going in for him in seven hours, when his routine indicates he'll be alone, he's being watched as we speak." The DI took another sip of his scotch, letting himself enjoy it a bit this time.

"I will, of course, be on hand when you take him in," Mycroft said with cool steel in his voice.

Greg nodded. "Yes, sir. I expected that, but what about John? He wants to be a part of this."

Mycroft leaned back in his chair and sipped his scotch. He didn't say anything for some time. Leaning forward, he set his glass down. "John is too valuable an asset to risk in this operation. If anything should happen to him... I fear what would become of my brother."

"But John..."

"We'll give him time alone with Barnes after the slime has been brought in." He looked Greg level in the eyes. "He can work out his anger issues in a locked room with the creature."

The DI swallowed. He had to remind himself he wasn't working under the Yard's rules on this case. He was operating under Mycroft's. That fact along with the knowledge of what had happened to his friend made it easy for him to agree. "Right. Here's to John working out his anger issues." Greg raised his glass and took another sip of scotch.

* * *

It was a week on from when John and Sherlock had started touching again. The detective never flinched anymore when John handed him a cup of tea and their fingers brushed. Accidentally bumping into one another in the kitchen no longer caused Sherlock's breathing to hitch and his heart rate to jump. They even sat on the sofa together to watch crap telly again.

John felt like it was time to up the ante. When he came in from the kitchen with two bowls of pasta for them, he sat closer than normal to Sherlock. Their thighs were almost touching. The detective gave him an odd look, but didn't say anything. That alone made John feel warm inside.

Sherlock bit his lip and took his bowl of pasta. He stared at it so long that John got worried. "Sherlock? Something wrong?"

"What? No. I just..." He looked at his flatmate and the look on his face was completely unguarded. The detective looked like a lost child. "Why are you doing this for me, cooking, taking care of me, all of it? I don't understand." His gaze dropped back down to the pasta.

"Oh, Sherlock." John set his bowl down on the coffee table. "I do these things because I care. I care so fucking much it hurts." Too late, the doctor realised maybe he had said too much too soon. "You're my friend, of course I care."

The detective looked at John oddly. He felt like he was missing something, something right in front of him. John had turned several shades of red. "I care so fucking much it hurts," he had said. Sherlock felt like his mind was grinding to a halt, refusing to connect point to point, but he forced himself to put the facts together. "Oh!" He leapt to his feet, his own bowl of pasta forgotten, dropped to the floor. "Oh!" He looked at John in horror, then limped away from the sofa, stopping in the centre of the room. "Oh! Oh! Oh!"

John stood slowly, horrified. "Sherlock, you're really, really scaring me now, not like before scaring me, but like really scaring me. What's going on?"

"You think you love me," the detective said, raising one hand to his temple and pointing at John with the other. "But you can't love me, John. There's nothing left to love, only filth."

"No!" The doctor snapped. "You are not filth. You are not your rape. You are the most beautiful, brilliant, amazing person in the entire world. You deserve to be loved and cared for. You deserve to be held up before the entire world to shine. You're every fucking thing in my life that is worth anything, so don't you dare tell me there's nothing left to love. I know better!"

They both stood there in the silence after their outbursts, staring at one another. It felt as if either of them so much as breathed, the world would shatter. Neither of them knew what would happen next.


	23. Chapter 23

Sherlock moved first, making a break for his bedroom. He dashed through the kitchen and down the hall ahead of John. It was too much to take in, too much to process. He had to get away from John so he could think. Sherlock slammed his bedroom door behind him and locked it, ignoring the slam of the doctor's body against it and the rattling of the handle. For a moment, he stood there, chest heaving, hands flying to his curls. Wandering the short distance to his bed, he sat down on it gingerly and stared of into space. He replayed their conversation over and over, always getting stuck at one bit - John loved him. His dearest wish had come true, but it had come true too late. Hadn't it?

The detective fell over on his side and curled into a ball. He pulled his pillow over his head and sqeezed his eyes shut. If John loved him, it meant one of two things. Either the doctor was delusional about Sherlock or the detective himself was wrong about a great many things. He determined to figure out which was the case, though he thought he knew the answer already.

Sherlock considered John. His friend knew the worst about him. From his lack of social skill to his sullied body. From the very first day they had met, John hadn't seemed to care about Sherlock's eccentricities. He didn't seem to care about this latest development either. John wasn't a saint. What was he? The doctor was a good man. He was a man with a temper to be sure, but he was essentially a good man at heart. How else explain his ability to put up with Sherlock? He thought about John more. The doctor was very practical, not one for flights of fancy or deluding himself. His resigned attitude towards his alcoholic sister was proof of that. John had tried to help her, but when she had rejected him, he had admitted he couldn't do anything until she wanted help.

John pounded at the door, feeling like an idiot. What if his friend had taken his declaration of love as a demand for sex? The detective wasn't thinking logically. It was possible. "Sherlock! Sherlock, let me in! Please. We need to talk about this. Don't hide from me. I swear, forget what I said about loving you. It's not that I don't, because I do, but it doesn't have to mean anything. It doesn't mean I want anything... sexual." There was no response. He rested his forehead against the door. "Alright. But we're talking about this when you come out." He'd wait for a few hours. If Sherlock hadn't come out or at least acknowledged him by then, he'd break the door down.

The detective hadn't heard any of John's words. He was thinking too fast and furiously to pay them any attention. The only conclusion he had reached was that John was a good man, stable in his thoughts and unlikely to delude himself over how he felt about Sherlock. That left the other possibility.

For the first time, the detective approached the problem from a different angle. If his conclusions were wrong, then it only made sense to do so. Sherlock imagined it had been John who had been raped. He imagined it in excruciating detail in his Mind Palace. He was immediately flooded with anger at the idea and concern for John. None of his feelings were of disgust. Sherlock found that he wanted to hold John and rock him, kiss him and make the pain go away. Could that possibly be how the doctor felt about him?

Sitting up on the bed, Sherlock looked at his bedroom door in surprise. On the other side of it was an incredible man. He believed what John had said to him - John loved him. He wasn't sure if he could accept that love, not now, but he was going to try.

* * *

Greg had a cut under his left eye. Mycroft was sporting a bruise on his right cheek. All in all, they looked like they had been involved in a spectacular brawl. In a way they had. Barnes hadn't gone down easily. In the end, however, the DI had closed his handcuffs around the man's wrists, being none too gentle. If Barnes got a few extra bruises after that, none of the other men on hand happened to notice. Mycroft's knuckles would be bruised for days.

"Do, by all means, say something," Mycroft said smoothly. "One word out of you and I'll have an excuse to hit you again."

"This is police brutality!" Barnes shouted.

Mycroft let his fist fly, snapping the man's head to the side. "I'm afraid you're mistaken. You aren't being arrested by the police. You're in my custody."

Barnes glared at him, obviously wanting to speak, but afraid to do so.

Mycroft smirked. "And I'm the British Government."


	24. Chapter 24

John was sitting on the sofa whilst he browsed the internet in boredom. Sherlock emerged from his bedroom fully clothed and made his way to the living room. He completely startled the doctor when he came and sat down next to him. Sherlock let himself experience how it felt to sit beside John. It wasn't nearly as overwhelming as he had expected it to be, the close proximity. Suddenly, he found himself yearning for comfort like he hadn't done since he was a child. The detective leaned over and rested his head on John's shoulder, not knowing how to ask for what he needed.

Very deliberately, the doctor closed his laptop and set it on the arm of the sofa. "May I put my arm around you?" he asked gently. At Sherlock's nod, he slipped his arm around the detective's shoulders. After a few moments, Sherlock's shoulders started shaking and John could have sworn he heard quiet sobs coming from his friend. He stayed very still, afraid that, if he moved, whatever this was would stop. He knew it shouldn't stop. Sherlock desperately needed the catharsis of tears. If John could provide a safe space for that, he would stay where he was for as long as it was needed.

Sherlock was too far gone to care about his dignity or the picture he presented. His body was racked with sobs. All that registered was that he was with John, safe, not just bodily, but in every way imaginable. He let his pain and sorrow, his self loathing and doubt pour out of himself freely. It wouldn't be the last time but it would be the worst. Before long, he was clinging to John's jumper and had buried his face in it. Ever so slowly, he brought himself back under control.

As Sherlock's tears subsided, John expected him to pull away, but he didn't. He felt the detective wipe the tears from his cheeks, then go still. John wanted nothing more than to wrap both arms around him and hold him tight. Instead, he risked a chaste kiss to the crown of Sherlock's head. It seemed to be welcomed, much to the doctor's relief.

They sat there quietly for quite some time. Neither of them moving or saying a word. The peace was finally broken by the ringing of John's phone. He ignored it.

Sherlock shifted, sitting up. His face was blotchy and his eyes red rimmed and swollen. "Go ahead. Answer it," he said in a rough voice that brooked no argument.

John sighed. He knew if he didn't take the call, the detective would see it as an indication that John thought he was weak, so he complied. "Hello?"

"We have him," Mycroft said without preamble.

John's heart immediately started racing. He didn't sit forward, though, and he tried to keep his expression neutral. With adrenaline pumping through his system, the doctor asked, "What's his condition?" He prayed the man was alive. He wanted his chance at him.

"He's a bit battered and has seen better days, but he's alive. For now." The government official's tone indicated that wouldn't always be the case. "I'm sending a car around for you. I thought you would like some alone time with my guest."

John bit his lip. Oh, how he wanted what Mycroft was offering, but now didn't seem like the time, not just after Sherlock had cried his pain out with his head resting on John's shoulder. No, he couldn't leave him now. The detective was too fragile, though he would never say as much. "I'm sorry, but now is a really bad time. I'm terribly busy with something important and can't possibly break away. Can I call you when it's more convenient?"

There was dead silence on the line for a moment, then Mycroft spoke, "Something's happened with Sherlock. Is he okay?" His tone betrayed his concern. There was a slight tremor in his voice.

"Oh, no. Everything's good. I'm just busy." The doctor willed Mycroft to use his Holmesian skills and understand what he was trying to say. He didn't want to be more explicit in front of Sherlock. He knew his friend would resent having his brother know how he had exposed his pain to John.

"Ah, I see. I'll assume progress of some sort has been made then," the government official said with relief. "I'll hold the miscreant for two days. After that, he will be disposed of in a most painful manner. I trust that's understood."

"Yes. Thank you. I'll give you a call when I get a bit of free time. Bye." John rang off and tossed his phone on the coffee table. He looked at Sherlock, expecting a bevy of questions. None were forthcoming. It was almost as if the detective had slipped away into his Mind Palace. That was okay. In fact, it was good. It would give John time to think about everything that had just happened and figure out what he was going to do next. Should Sherlock emerge any time soon, John would be there, waiting.


	25. Chapter 25

Sherlock hissed in a breath and looked over at John. "That was my brother on the phone."

"Yes, it was." John strove to sound casual. "I didn't really want to talk to him, not right now."

"Wrong. You didn't want to talk to him in front of me." The detective tilted his head, taking in John's strained expression and his closed fist. "He's captured him. That's why he called." That and to invite you to the party, he thought. I know what you want to do to him, John. I know what Mycroft plans. "You should go. See what he wants. I'll be fine."

"Sherlock..."

"Go!" The detective lurched from his chair and into John's space. "Go, go, go! Leave me alone! I want this over with. Don't you think I know what you all have planned. I need to know it's over."

Holding his hands in front of him, the doctor shook his head. "You weren't supposed to know about this. We didn't want it to be a burden on you."

"It won't be a burden," Sherlock hissed. "It will remove one. I'll know he isn't out there waiting on me. I'll know... I'll know he hurt as much as I did." The detective dashed away angry tears. "He deserves it!"

"I can't argue that, but we didn't want you involved, even peripherally." The doctor slowly approached his flatmate, arms held open. He kept going until he held Sherlock loosely in his arms. "If you want, I'll go, but let me get Mrs. Hudson to keep you company. I don't want the knowledge of where I am and what I'm doing eating you up from the inside."

Sherlock stood stiffly in John's arms at first, then he relaxed into them, resting his head on the doctor's shoulder. "Alright," he said shakily, "but only because it's you asking."

The doctor could feel Sherlock's entire frame shaking. "Come on. Let's sit for a bit until you get calmed down, then I'll get Mrs. Hudson." John guided the detective to the sofa where they sat, Sherlock clinging to him for comfort. It touched him deeply that his friend trusted him enough to find comfort in his embrace. He held him until the time seemed right, then he went and got their landlady.

* * *

John had called Mycroft and told him he was ready. Just a few minutes later, a black sedan pulled up to the kerb where he had been waiting. He climbed into the back seat and closed the door. The ride passed in silence. The entire way, John kept opening and closing his fist. He wasn't happy that Sherlock knew where he was going, but there was nothing to be done about it now. He turned his attention to the man he was about to meet face to face and what he intended to do to him. He didn't think he'd have any problem sleeping when all was said and done.

Greg was waiting for him when the car came to a stop. "Hi, John," he said grimly when the doctor was standing next to him. "Mycroft is keeping an eye on Barnes."

"Barnes," John repeated the name, trying it out for himself. "So that's the bastard's name." He tried picturing a face to go with it with no success. "What condition is he in?"

The DI barked a laugh, a dark laugh that didn't sound at all like himself. "He's got quite a few bruises, took a bump to the head. He may have a cracked rib or two. It's such a shame he resisted being taken in. We had to get rough with him. And he absolutely refuses any and all medical treatment." Greg tutted with mock regret. "Maybe, as a doctor, you can talk some sense into him."

John's fist clenched tighter at his side as they approached the cell where Barnes was being held. He and Greg stopped just short of Mycroft. "So, he's in there?" the doctor, no, ex-army captain asked.

"Yes. I've told him to be expecting you," Mycroft informed John. "He's not exactly looking forward to your meeting." He gave the ex-army captain a grim smile. "Whenever you're ready."

"I'm ready now, Mycroft. Let me in there." John turned and faced the door.

At a nod from the government official, a guard stepped forward and unlocked the cell door.

"Just call out when you're done," Mycroft told him.

John stepped into the cell and the door clanged shut behind him.

* * *

"Mycroft! I'm done here!" John called from within the cell. He looked back at the broken man on the cell floor with satisfaction. People said that revenge didn't make things better, but it was bloody satisfying.

The cell door opened and John stepped out. Mycroft and Greg peered through the open door, seeming to approve of what they saw.

"I have a change of clothes for you," Mycroft said blandly. "You'll want to clean up and change before going back to Baker Street."

The doctor looked down at himself and grimaced at the amount of blood visible. "Ah, thanks. What will you do about him?" He jerked his head towards the cell."

"I, Doctor Watson, will finish what you started," Mycroft promised. "There's no need for your or Gregory's involvement from this point forward. Rest assured, Barnes will be in a grave by nightfall."


	26. Chapter 26

When John got back to the flat, it was to find Sherlock stood by the window, playing his violin. The detective didn't pause in his playing, but turned slightly towards the door. "Is it done, then?" he asked, almost casually.

"Yeah, it's done," John said quietly.

The detective lowered his violin and put it away. "I want to go out. Not far and not for long, but the walls are closing in on me." He shrugged and indicated his state of dress. He had donned dark grey trousers and a white shirt. "Will you go with me?"

John swallowed. He remembered the last time Sherlock had left the flat and how terrible it had turned out. Still, he couldn't live his life within the walls of Baker Street. "Why don't we get some coffee from Speedy's? See how that goes, yeah?"

Biting his lip, the detective agreed. He took a few hesitant steps towards the door. "You don't mind if we go now?" he asked diffidently.

"Now. Later. It doesn't matter to me. I'm here for you whenever you want to go," John promised as he stepped up by Sherlock's side.

The detective rubbed his sweaty palm against his thigh, then he reached blindly for John's hand. Holding it tight, he started towards the door again. He paused a moment on the steps of 221, before stealing himself and continuing the short distance to Speedy's. Together, they found a table.

Once Sherlock was settled, John left him to get them both coffee. He kept looking back so see how the detective was doing, but Sherlock seemed to be alright. As soon as their coffee was ready, he hurried back and sat across from Sherlock. "How are you doing?"

The detective grasped his cup of coffee in both hands, enjoying the warmth that seeped through them. "I feel... fine. Good, almost." He sipped the coffee, swallowing it. "Maybe it's knowing he's gone," he whispered quietly, the words costing him so much just to speak them. Sherlock looked down at the surface of his coffee, watching it swirl around. "Is that cowardly of me?" he wondered aloud. Before, he'd never given second thought to his own safety, he had always done what needed to be done despite the threat.

Laying his hand on the table palm up so the other man could take it if he so chose, John shook his head. "No it's not. It's understandable. He would have taken delight in getting you again and we both know it. It can't happen now."

Sherlock reached for and took the doctor's hand, squeezing it. "That doesn't mean there won't be others." Long moments of silence passed. "But I can't let that thought paralyse me, can I? Would you... Let's go for a walk. Just a few blocks. Maybe take a cab to the morgue." He needed to see if he could face Molly, knowing what she knew. "We could bother Gavin for some cold cases?" he suggested, letting his eyes smile so that John would know he had misnamed Greg as a joke.

"Don't you think that might be trying to do too much?" John asked in a worried tone. He gripped Sherlock's hand tighter. "I don't mean to tell you what to do, but the last time you left the flat..."

"I was angry and... scared and most importantly, alone. I didn't have you by my side." Sherlock needed his friend to understand how much he needed him, how much he meant to him. "It's not just about your ability to protect me, though I know you will if you need to, you always have. It's because you... I... Dammit!"

"Take your time," John urged. "I know that talking isn't easy for either of us at the best of times and this is hardly that."

The detective nodded and took a deep, calming breath. "Just having you with me makes this easier because I know you care, you... love me. You won't let me push myself too far. I need you, John." For a genius, he felt completely inadequate to the task of explaining himself. That would have to do.

"Yeah, I do. Love you, I mean." John smiled at Sherlock softly, completely unaware of their surroundings. "You've finally accepted that, have you?"

"I've accepted that you have poor taste and judgement in these things," the detective said as he stood. He tested his weight on his bad leg and it held. At least he was starting to be able to get around better. "Shall we, then?"

"Fine, we'll see how you do, but, Sherlock..." John waited until the detective had turned to look at him. "Where my judgement about love is concerned, I have excellent taste. Don't you dare criticise it again."

The detective looked at John, dumfounded. The doctor was a wonder. He needed to decide what to do about John. He knew he should cut him loose and set him free, but he didn't think he'd ever be able to. He wasn't that strong.


	27. Chapter 27

Sherlock hesitated just outside the lab at Barts. He could see Molly through the narrow pane of glass in the door. She hadn't seen him yet and he was tempted to retreat, do this another day. Molly was certain to react with an excess of emotion.

"We don't have to do this now," John said as if reading the detective's mind. "It's not like Molly's hard to find."

The mere fact of the doctor's offer gave Sherlock courage and he shook his head. "No, I want to do this now." He took John's hand and pushed through the door into the lab, dragging the doctor along behind him.

Molly looked up to see who had entered and dropped the pipettte she had been holding. Other than that, she didn't move a muscle.

"Hello, Molly," Sherlock said, aiming for a casual tone. He came close, but there was a slight tremolo to his voice.

"Oh, Sherlock," Molly said, her bottom lip trembling. She took a hesitant step toward him, obviously wanting to embrace him, but stopped herself, a fact for which he was immeasurably grateful. Still, tears welled in her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks.

"John informs me that I have been insufferable of late. I attribute that to an excess of boredom. The body parts you sent me earlier have all served their purpose." He pasted a broad, but fake grin on his face, hoping he wasn't visibly shaking. "I was hoping for something more substantial this time. Something like hands or a nice set of lungs."

Molly looked about awkwardly, finally wiping her eyes. "I don't have either of those things, but I do have a liver in the morgue. It should prove interesting. I can let you have that if you like."

"That would be quite suitable, thank you, Molly." Sherlock gave John's hand a squeeze, drawing Molly's attention to their clasped hands. She gave a squeak.

"I'll just go get it for you," she offered, rushing off. When Molly reappeared several minutes later, it was with a cooler marked hazardous waste. She handed it to Sherlock awkwardly. Screwing up her courage, she said, "You look good. I'm glad. I... If I can ever do anyth-"

"Thank you for the liver, Molly." the detective said dismissively. He needed to get out of the lab before the young woman said anything else to embarrass them both or to further remind him why this meeting was so awkward.

John smiled at Molly and offered her a, "Ta," before pulling Sherlock from the lab. "Well, there's that done. Are you alright, Sherlock?" He resisted the urge to hug his friend.

The detective was pale and slightly shaken, but he didn't feel the impending signs of a panic attack. "I'm fine, but... perhaps we should skip the visit to the Yard. I'd like to get this straight into the fridge at home."

Knowing the real reason for the change in plans, Molly's reaction had been too much, John readily acquiesced. "Yeah, Greg probably wouldn't like a liver sitting on his desk anyway. You know how he was about the appendix and that wasn't even a vital organ."

When they got out on the pathway, there was a black sedan waiting for them. Sherlock groaned. "Let's ignore him and he'll go away."

"You know he won't. He'll just follow us until we get annoyed enough to find out what he wants," John tugged on the detective's hand. "Come on, let's get this over with."

Reluctantly, Sherlock let himself be dragged over and into the car, but he kept a scowl on his face the entire time.

Mycroft noted how John and his brother held hands and he smiled smugly. "I see things are moving along nicely."

John shot him a glare. That look along with that statement was certain to raise Sherlock's suspicions. "Shut up, Mycroft."

The detective followed Mycroft's gaze to where he held John's hand and he noted his brother's smug look. The deductions tumbled into place. Immediately he freed his hand from the doctor's grasp. "What have you done, Mycroft?" He turned his glare to John. "And you, what about you? Did my brother put you up to this... this false relationship... this false show of caring. What? You're supposed to convince me I'm still worth caring about, then when I'm all 'better' you dump me and go back to your women. Let me out of this car!" He should have known that John caring about him was too good to be true. He was broken, damaged, filthy.

"No!" John reclaimed Sherlock's hand and refused to let go despite how had the detective struggled. "Mycroft is an arrogant prat who can't keep his mouth shut and leave well enough alone. Yes, he suggested I tell you how I feel about you, but that's exactly what I did. I told you how I feel about you, not some fabrication."

The detective shook his head, still disbelieving. "Let. Me. Out."

"No. Not until you say you believe me. If it'll help, I'll be happy to give Mycroft a bloody nose. I'll break it, if you want."

Mycroft looked distinctly uncomfortable.

"And he's not allowed back in our flat unless you say so," John promissed.

"Sherlock..." Mycroft began.

"Shut up, brother-mine. I need to think." The detective wrapped his coat around himself. He wasn't sure what to make out of this whole situation. He wasn't sure of John's feelings for him. As angry as he was, he wasn't even sure that he wanted to ban Mycroft from his life, not after everthing he had done for him. It used to be so easy to know what to do and say. Why couldn't it be that way again?


	28. Chapter 28

Sherlock wanted to leap out of the car and run up the stairs to the flat so he could throw himself down on the sofa, but he hadn't healed enough for that. Instead, he climbed out and, without looking back, made his way into 221 and up the stairs. He needed to think about the deduction he had made in the car - that John had told him he cared at Mycroft's request.

John, left alone with Mycroft, gave the other man a hard look. "If, and I do mean if, he still believes that I love him and that I'm not disgusted by him, I'll talk him around. I'll convince him you were just worried about him, not being a meddlesome prick. Otherwise, don't come around for a while or I might just give you that bloody nose I mentioned." The doctor got out of the car, slamming the door, and followed his friend to their flat.

Mycroft gestured for the driver to pull away. If he gelt guilt, well, it was just a bit more to bear where his brother was concerned. After all, he still felt the rape had been his fault, even though logically, he knew there was nothing he could have done to prevent it.

* * *

Once the doctor reached their flat, he found Sherlock laying on the sofa. For once, his back wasn't turned to the room, so maybe he would be open to discussion. At least John hoped he would be. "Sherlock, I think we need to talk about what just happened," John said gently. He wanted to reach out and rest his hand on the detective's arm, but couldn't quite bring himself to do it.

"I don't." Sherlock closed his eyes and willed his friend to leave him alone. It didn't work. He could almost feel the doctor hovering over him, a benign presence.

John sat down on the coffee table at the same that Sherlock's head rested on the sofa. He looked at the detective for a long while, thinking. "Open your eyes please," he requested in a soft and hopefully soothing tone.

Spoken that way, the detective couldn't refuse his friend's request. He opened his eyes and returned John's gaze. The look in the doctor's eyes was full of what could only be love.

Ever so slowly, so slowly that Sherlock could stop him if he so desired, John leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the detective's forehead. He lingered a few moments, letting the gesture speak for him. After that, he touched Sherlock's lips with a single finger. "Someday, when you're ready, I want to kiss you here. Because I love you, not because of anything your brother has to say." John drew his finger away and placed his hands in his lap, waiting for the detective's reaction.

Sherlock's heart started pounding and he sat up slowly. Something had shifted inside him, releasing something bold. "I think I would like that..." He drifted off, thinking. The detective didn't want to wait for someday. He wanted that kiss now. Sherlock reached out and placed a hand on either side of John's face, holding him still. He hesitated only a moment, then pressed their lips together.

The doctor, completely stunned, didn't open his mouth or try to take the lead. He didn't dare. He let Sherlock have complete control of the kiss. It was rather chaste, but John didn't mind in the least, it was a kiss and it was more than he had had reason to expect.

Sherlock pulled away with a gasp, his face flushed. After a moment, he smiled and tried it again. This time, he allowed his lips to part and let his tongue dart out. He ran it along the seam of John's lips, tasting, feeling, then he pressed just firmly enough to make sure the doctor got the message. The way his heart beat and fluttered wasn't terrifying, it was delightful.

John parted his lips and let Sherlock in. He still remained passive, allowing the detective to explore his mouth at leisure. It was the singularly strangest yet most delightful kiss of John's life. When it ended, he gave Sherlock a hesitant smile, waiting for his reaction. He was more than half terrified that his friend would panic and bolt.

"I like kissing you," the detective announced. "I think... I don't care why you told me how you feel about me. I'm just glad you did." He patted the empty spot on the sofa and John moved onto it. Sherlock curled up next to him and rested his head on John's shoulder. "Maybe, someday, I'll want more than to kiss you." How long that might be, he didn't know.

John placed a hand on Sherlock's knee. "I want what you want, babe. Nothing more. Nothing less. It's all good." It really was. He never wanted to push or pressure Sherlock into anything. Just having him with him was enough, safe and, hopefully one day, whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could have gone on with this forever, but I felt that this was a respectful place to leave the boys. I have no doubt they will continue to work through their issues and have a full and meaningful relationship. There will be times when Sherlock backslides, but John will be there for him and they will make it through. There will be exciting crimes to solve and life will be more good than bad for our boys.


	29. Chapter 29

This story now continues in the sequel, [Finding His Way](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11280096).

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to podfic or translate this or create a drawing based on it, go for it. Just please let me know and link back to my fic.
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr.](http://shippingintothenight.tumblr.com)


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